THE ART OF

DRAMATIC WRITING
Its Basis
in the Creative
Interpretation
of Human Motives
BY
LAJOS EGRI
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

GILBERT MILLER

A TOUCHSTONE BOOK
Published by Simon & Schuster

New York London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore

 COPYRIGHT © 1946, 1960 BY LAJOS EGRI
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
INCLUDING THE RIGHT OF REPRODUCTION
IN WHOLE OR IN PART IN ANY FORM
A TOUCHSTONE BOOK
PUBLISHED BY SIMON & SCHUSTER, INC.

ROCKEFELLER CENTER
1230 AVENUE OF THE AMERICAS
NEW YORK, N.Y. 10020
TOUCHSTONE AND COLOPHON ARE REGISTERED TRADEMARKS
OF SIMON & SCHUSTER, INC.
Originally published by Simon and Schuster in 1942 as How to Write a Play;'
revised and published in 1946 as The Art of Dramatic Writing. This is a newly
revised edition of that book.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks are due to: Coward-McCann, Inc., for permission to quote
from Moses L. Malevinsky's The Science of Playwriting. Covici-Friede,
Inc., for permission to quote from Stevedore by Paul Peters and George
Sklar. Dr. Milisaw Demerec for permission to quote from his speech on
Heredity, delivered before the American Association for the Advance-
ment of Science, on December 30,1938. Dodd, Mead 8c Company, Inc., for
permission to quote from William Archer's Play-Making, A Manual of
Craftsmanship. Farrar & Rinehart, Inc., for permission to quote from
Dubose Heyward's Brass Ankle, copyrighted by the author in 1931. Edna
Fcrber and George S. Kaufman for permission to quote from their play.
Dinner at Eight, published by Doubleday Doran 8c Company, Inc. Inter-
national Publishers Co., Inc., for their permission to quote from V. Ado-
ratsky's Dialectics. Little, Brown 8c Company for their permission to quote
from Percival Wilde's Craftsmanship. The Macmillan Company for their
permission to quote from Lorande L. Woodruff's Animal Biology. The
New York Times for their permission to quote from Robert van Gelder's
interview with Lillian Hellman, April si, 1941. G. P. Putnam's Sons for
permission to quote from John Howard Lawson's The Theory and
Technique of Playwriting, copyright, 1936; and for their permission and
the author's, Albert Maltz, to quote from his play, The Black Pit. Eugene
O'Neill and his publishers, Random House, Inc., for their permission to
quote from his play, Mourning Becomes Electro. Random House, Inc.,
for their permission to quote from Irwin Shaw's play. Bury the Dead:
Charles Scribner's Sons for their permission to quote from Robert Sher-
wood's play. Idiot's Delight. John C. Wilson for permission to quote from
Noel Coward's plays. Design for Living, copyright, 1933, and published
by Doubleday Doran & Company; and Hay Fever, copyright, 1925.
Dwight Deere Wiman and die New York Herald Tribune for their
permission to quote from Mr. Wiman's article, "Advice: Producer to
Playwright," April 6, 1941.
ISBN 0-671-21338-6
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
45 47 49 50 48 46
 TO
MY WIFE, ILONA
 INTRODUCTION

/ must say at once, in all fairness to both Mr. Egri and to

the rules he has helped annihilate in his book, The Art of Dra-
matic Writing, that it is far more than a manual on playwright-
ing.
It is difficult to catalogue this book in a sentence, just as it
must have been difficult to say in a handful of words what,
when they first came from the press, Veblen's Theory of the
Leisure Class was to sociology, what Parrington's Main Cur-
rents in American Thought was to American literature. These
books, in addition to casting floodlights into the hitherto dark
corners of their respective fields, illuminate so much neigh-
boring terrain, open up windows on so many other provinces
of life, that they take some time in the evaluation. Time, I
am certain, will deal handsomely with The Art of Dramatic
Writing.
Being a play producer by profession, I am naturally most
keenly interested in what Mr. Egri has to say to me directly,
as a professional man. The theater is as studded with rules as
is a baked ham with cloves. None is more rigid, none more
unfalteringly axiomatic, than the one that says nobody can
possibly know what a good play looks like until it has been
produced. This is quite obviously a rather expensive pro-
cedure. It leaves one with something less than a feeling of
satisfaction when, as is all too often true, the ultimate- result
is so bad. It is no small thing, therefore, to be able to say of
a book what I feel I can say of The Art of Dramatic Writing.
vi
INTRODUCTION vii

Here is the first book I have come across that can tell why a
play is bad long before you have signed contracts with highly
paid actors and commissioned various members of seven
unions to proceed with the construction of a production that
will cost as much as a Long Island mansion.
'Mr. Egri writes with the solidity, the authority, the ease
that, it seems to me, comes only from knowing more than one
profession. He writes with the sort of hard, shining clarity that
comes of surefootedness in all the nooks and crannies, all the
mountains and valleys of life itself. This man, you feel, has
been around a long time and in many places. He has under-
stood much and learned more than most. Mr. Egri writes like
a very wise man.
The best of the many things I can say for The Art of Dra-
matic Writing is that from now on the average person, includ-
ing myself, will have no excuse for inarticulateness. Once you
read Mr. Egri's book you will know why any novel, any movie,
any play, any short story was boring, or, more important, why
it was exciting.
I feel that this book will greatly influence the American
theater and the public as well.

GILBERT MILLER
 • •

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION vi
FOREWORD x

PREFACE xiii
I PREMISE 1
II CHARACTER 32
1. The Bone Structure 32
2. Environment 43
3. The Dialectical Approach 49
4. Character Growth 59
5. Strength of Will in a Character 77
6. Plot or Character—Which? 86
7. Characters Plotting Their Own Play 100
8. Pivotal Character 106
9. The Antagonist 113
10. Orchestration 114
11. Unity of Opposites 118
III CONFLICT 125
1. Origin of Action 125
2. Cause and Effect 126
3. Static 136
4. Jumping 146
viii
CONTENTS ix

5. Rising . 162
6. Movement 171
7. Foreshadowing Conflict 178
8. Point of Attack 182
g. Transition 192
10. Crisis, Climax, Resolution 218
IV GENERAL 230
1. Obligatory Scene 230
2. Exposition 234
3. Dialogue 238
4. Experimentation 245
5. The Timeliness of a Play 248
6. Entrances and Exits 251
7. Why Are Some Bad Plays Successful? 253
8. Melodrama 255
9. On Genius 256
10. What Is Art?—A Dialogue 259
11. When You Write a Play 262
12. How to Get Ideas 265
13. Writing for Television 274
14. Conclusion 278
APPENDIX A. Plays Analyzed 279
APPENDIX B. How to Market Your Play 294
APPENDIX C. Long Runs on Broadway 298
INDEX 303
 FOREWORD

The Importance of Being Important

DURING the classic time of Greece a terrible thing happened
in one of the temples. One night the statue of Zeus was mys-
teriously smashed and desecrated.
A tremendous uproar arose among the inhabitants. They
feared the vengeance of the gods.
The town criers walked the city streets commanding the
criminal to appear without delay before the Elders to receive
his just punishment.
The perpetrator naturally had no desire to give himself
up. In fact, a week later another statue of a god was destroyed.
Now the people suspected that a madman was loose. Guards
were posted and at last their vigilance was rewarded; the cul-
prit was caught.
He was asked,
"Do you know what fate awaits you?"
"Yes," he answered, almost cheerfully. "Death."
"Aren't you afraid to die?"
"Yes, I am."
"Then why did you commit a crime which you knew was
punishable by death?"
The man swallowed hard and then answered,
"I am a nobody. All my life I've been a nobody. I've never
done anything to distinguish myself and I knew I never would.
I wanted to do something to make people notice me . . .
and remember me."
After a moment's silence he added, "Only those people die
FOREWORD XI

who are forgotten. I feel death is a small price to pay for im-
mortality!"
* * %
Immortality!
Yes, we all crave attention. We want to be important, im-
mortal. We want to do things that will make people exclaim,
"Isn't he wonderful?"
If we can't create something useful or beautiful . . . we
shall certainly create something else: trouble, for instance.
Just think of your aunt Helen, the family gossip. (We all
have one.) She causes hard feelings, suspicion, and subsequent
arguments. Why does she do it? She wants to be important,
of course, and if she can achieve this only by means of gossip
or lying, she will not, for one moment, hesitate to gossip or lie.
The urge to be outstanding is a fundamental necessity in our
lives. All of us, at all times, crave attention. Self-consciousness,
even reclusiveness, springs from the desire to be important.
If failure arouses compassion or pity, then failure might be-
come an end in itself.
Take your brother-in-law Joe. He's always running after
women. Why? He's a good provider, a good father, and
strangely enough, a good husband. But there is something
missing in his life. He is not important enough to himself,
to his family, and to the world. His affairs have become the
focal point of his existence. Each new conquest makes him
feel more important; he feels he has accomplished something.
Joe would be surprised to learn that his craving for women
is a substitute for the creation of something more significant.

Motherhood is a creation. It is the beginning of immortality.

Perhaps this is one of the reasons women are less inclined
toward philandering than men.
The greatest injustice imposed upon a mother is when her
grown up children, out of sheer love and consideration, keep
their troubles from her. They make her feel unimportant.
xii FOREWORD

Without exception everyone was born with creative ability.

It is essential that people be given the opportunity to express
themselves. If Balzac, De Maupassant, O. Henry, hadn't learned
to write, they might have become inveterate liars, instead of
great writers.
Every human being needs an outlet for his inborn creative
talent. If you feel you would like to write, then write. Per-
haps you are afraid that lack of a higher education might re-
tard you from real accomplishment? Forget it. Many great
writers, Shakespeare, Ibsen, George Bernard Shaw, to mention
a few, never saw the inside of a college.
Even if you will never be a genius, your enjoyment of life
can still be great.
If writing holds no lure for you, you might learn to sing,
dance, or play an instrument well enough to entertain your
guests. This belongs in the realm of "art" too.
Yes, we want to be noticed. We want to be remembered.
We want to be important! We can achieve a degree of impor-
tance by expressing ourselves in the medium which best suits
our particular talents. You never know where your avocation
will lead you.
Even if you fail commercially, you might very well emerge
from your experience an authority on the subject you learned
so much about. You'll be richer in experience—and if you
have been kept out of mischief, that alone will be a great
accomplishment.
So the gnawing hunger to be important will be satisfied at
last without harm to anyone.
 PREFACE

THIS book was written not only for authors and playwrights,
but for the general public. If the reading public understands
the mechanism of writing, if that public becomes aware of the
hardships, the tremendous effort that goes into any and all
literary work, appreciation will become more spontaneous.
The reader will find at the end of this book synopses of
plays, analyzed according to dialectics. We hope these will
add to the reader's understanding of novels and short stories
in general, and of plays and movies in particular.
We shall discuss plays in this book without acclaiming or
dismissing each one in its entirety. When we quote passages
to illustrate a point, we are not necessarily approving the
whole play.
We deal with both modern and classical plays. There is
an emphasis on the classics because most modern plays are
too soon forgotten. Most intelligent people are familiar with
the classics and they are always available for study.
We have based our theory on the eternally changing "char-
acter" who forever reacts, almost violently, to constantly
changing internal and external stimuli.
What is the fundamental make-up of a human being, any
human being- -perhaps you, who are reading these very lines?
This question must be answered before we can settle down
to discuss "point of attack," "orchestration," and the rest. We
must know more about the biology of the subject that we see
later, in movement.
We begin with a dissection of "premise," "character," and
xiii
xiv PREFACE

"conflict." This is to give the reader an inkling of that power

which will drive a character to greater heights or to his de-
struction.
A builder who does hot know the material he has to
work with courts disaster. In our case, the materials are
"premise," "character," and "conflict." Before knowing all
these in their minutest detail, it is useless to speak of how
to write a play. We hope the reader will find this approach
helpful.

In this book we propose to show a new approach to writing

in general, and to playwriting in particular. This approach
is based on the natural law of dialectics.
Great plays, written by immortal authors, have come down
to us through the ages. Yet even geniuses often wrote very
bad plays.
Why? Because they wrote on the basis of instinct, rather
than from exact knowledge. Instinct may lead a man once,
or several times, to create a masterpiece, but as sheer instinct
it may lead him just as often to create a failure.
Authorities have listed the laws governing the science of
playwriting. Aristotle, the first and undoubtedly the most
important influence on the drama, said 2500 years ago:
Most important of all is the structure of the incidents, not of man,
but of action and life.
Aristotle denied the importance of character, and his influ-
ence persists today. Others have declared character the all-
important factor in any type of writing. Lope de Vega, the
sixteenth<entury Spanish dramatist, gave this outline:
In the first act set forth the case. In the second weave together the
events, in such wise that until the middle of the third act one may
hardly guess the outcome. Always trick expectancy; and hence it
may come to pass that something quite far from what is promised
may be left to the understanding.
PREFACE XV

The German critic and playwright Lessing wrote:

The strictest observation of the rules cannot outweigh the smallest
fault in a character.
The French dramatist Corneille wrote:
It is certain that there are laws of the drama, since it is an art; but
it is not certain what these laws are.
And so on, all contradicting one another. Some go so far as
to claim that there can be no rules whatsoever. This is the
strangest view of all. We know there are rules for eating, walk-
ing, and breathing; we know there are rules for painting,
music, dancing, flying, and bridge building; we know there
are rules for every manifestation of life and nature—why,
then, should writing be the sole exception? Obviously, it is not.
Some writers who have tried to list rules have told us that
a play is made up of different parts: theme, plot, incidents,
conflict, complications, obligatory scene, atmosphere, dia-
logue, and climax. Books have been written on each of these
parts, explaining and analyzing them for the student.
These authors have treated their subject matter honestly.
They have studied the work of other men in the same field.
They have written plays of their own and learned from their
own experience. But the reader has never been satisfied.
Something was missing. The student still did not understand
the relationship between complication, tension, conflict, and
mood or what any of these or kindred topics related to play-
making had to do with the good play he wanted to write. He
knew what was meant by "theme," but when he tried to apply
this knowledge he was lost. After all, William Archer said
theme was unnecessary. Percival Wilde said it was necessary at
the beginning, but must be buried so deeply that no one
could detect it. Which was right?
Then consider the soolled obligatory scene. Some authori-
ties said it was vital; others said there was no such thing. And
XVI PREFACE

why was it vital—if it was? Or why wasn't it—if it wasn't?

Each textbook writer explained his own pet theory, but not
one of them related it to the whole in such a way as to help
the student. The unifying force was missing.
We believe that obligatory scene, tension, atmosphere, and
the rest are superfluous. They are the effect of something
much more important. It is useless to tell a playwright that he
needs an obligatory scene, or that his play lacks tension or
complication, unless you can tell him how to achieve these
things. And a definition is not the answer.
There must be something to generate tension, something
to create complication, without any conscious attempt on the
playwright's part to do so. There must be a force which will
unify all parts, a force out of which they will grow as naturally
as limbs grow from the body. We think we know what that
force is: human character, in all its infinite ramifications and
dialectical contradictions.

Not for a moment do we believe that this book has said the
last word on playwriting. On the contrary. Breaking a new
road, one makes many mistakes and sometimes becomes in-
articulate. Those coming after us will dig deeper and bring
this dialectical approach to writing to a more crystallized form
than we ever hope to do. This book, using a dialectical ap-
proach, is itself subject to the laws of dialectics. The theory
advanced here is a thesis. Its contradiction will be the antithe-
sis. From the two will be formed a synthesis, uniting both the
thesis and antithesis. This is the road to truth.
 I
PREMISE

A MAN sits in his workshop, busy with an invention of wheels

and springs. You ask him what the gadget is, what it is meant
to do. He looks at you confidingly and whispers: "I really don't
know."
Another man rushes down the street, panting for breath.
You intercept him and ask where he is going. He gasps: "How
should I know where I'm going? I am on my way."
Your reaction—and ours, and the world's—is that these two
men are a little mad. Every sensible invention must have a
purpose, every planned sprint a destination.
Yet, fantastic as it seems, this simple necessity has not made
itself felt to any extent in the theater. Reams of paper bear
miles of writing—all of it without any point at all. There is
much feverish activity, a great deal of get-up-and-go, but no
one seems to know where he is going.
Everything has a purpose, or premise. Every second of our
life has its own premise, whether or not we are conscious of it
at the time. That premise may be as simple as breathing or as
complex as a vital emotional decision, but it is always there.
We may not succeed in proving each tiny premise, but that
in no way alters the fact that there was one we meant to prove.
Our attempt to cross the room may be impeded by an unob-
served footstool, but our premise existed nevertheless.
The premise of each second contributes to the premise of
the minute of which it is part, just as each minute gives its
bit of life to the hour, and the hour to the day. And so, at the
end, there is a premise for every life.
2 PREMISE

Webster's International Dictionary says:

Premise: a proposition antecedently supposed or proved; a basis
of argument. A proposition stated or assumed as leading to a
conclusion.
Others, especially men of the theater, have had different
words for the same thing: theme, thesis, root idea, central idea,
goal, aim, driving force, subject, purpose, plan, plot, basic
emotion.
For our own use we choose the word "premise" because it
contains all the elements the other words try to express and
because it is less subject to misinterpretation.
Ferdinand Brunetiere demands a "goal" in the play to start
with. This is premise.
John Howard Lawson: "The root-idea is the beginning of
the process." He means premise.
Professor Brander Matthews: "A play needs to have a
theme." It must be the premise.
Professor George Pierce Baker, quoting Dumas the
Younger: "How can you tell what road to take unless you know
where you are going?" The premise will show you the road.
They all mean one thing: you must have a premise for your
play.
Let us examine a few plays and see whether they have prem-
ises.
Romeo and Juliet
The play starts with a deadly feud between two families,
the Capulets and the Montagues. The Montagues have a son,
Romeo, and the Capulets a daughter, Juliet. The youngsters'
love for each other is so great that they forget the traditional
hate between their two families. Juliet's parents try to force
her to marry Count Paris, and, unwilling to do this, she goes
to the good friar, her friend, for advice. He tells her to take a
strong sleeping draught on the eve of her wedding which will
PREMISE 3

make her seemingly dead for forty-two hours. Juliet follows

his advice. Everyone thinks her dead. This starts the onrush-
ing tragedy for the two lovers. Romeo, believing Juliet really
dead, drinks poison and dies beside her. When Juliet awakens
and finds Romeo dead, without hesitation she decides to unite
with him in death.

This play obviously deals with love. But there are many
kinds of love. No doubt this was a great love, since the two
lovers not only defied family tradition and hate, but threw
away life to unite in death. The premise, then, as we see it is:
"Great love defies even death."
King Lear
The King's trust in his two daughters is grievously mis-
placed. They strip him of all his authority, degrade him, and
he dies insane, a broken, humiliated old man.

Lear trusts his oldest daughters implicitly. Because he be-

lieves their glittering words, he is destroyed.
A vain man believes flattery and trusts those who flatter him.
But those who flatter cannot be trusted, and those who be-
lieve the flatterers are courting disaster.
It seems, then, that "Blind trust leads to destruction" is the
premise of this play.
Macbeth
Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, in their ruthless ambition to
achieve their goal, decide to kill King Duncan. Then, to
strengthen himself in his position, Macbeth hires assassins
to kill Banquo, whom he fears. Later, he is forced to commit
still more murders in order to entrench himself more securely
in the position he has reached through murder. Finally, the
nobles and his own subjects become so aroused that they rise
against him, and Macbeth perishes as he lived—by the sword.
Lady Macbeth dies of haunting fear.
4 PREMISE

What can be the premise of this play? The question is, what
is the motivating force? No doubt it is ambition. What kind
of ambition? Ruthless, since it is drenched in blood. Mac-
beth's downfall was foreshadowed in the very method by
which he achieved his ambition. So, as we see, the premise for
Macbeth is: "Ruthless ambition leads to its own destruction."

Othello
Othello finds Desdemona's handkerchief in Cassio's lodg-
ing. It had been taken there by Iago for the very purpose of
making him jealous. Othello therefore kills Desdemona and
plunges a dagger into his own heart.

Here the leading motivation is jealousy. No matter what

caused this green-eyed monster to raise its ugly head, the im-
portant thing is that jealousy is the motivating force in this
play, and since Othello kills not only Desdemona but himself
as well, the premise, as we see it, is: "Jealousy destroys itself
and the object of its love."

Ghosts, BY IBSEN
The basic idea is heredity. The play grew out of a Biblical
quotation which is the premise: "The sins of the fathers are
visited on the children." Every word uttered, every move
made, every conflict in the play, comes about because of this
premise.

Dead End, BY SIDNEY KINGSLEY

Here the author obviously wants to show and prove that
"Poverty encourages crime." He does.

Sweet Bird of Youth, BY TENNESSEE WILLIAMS

A ruthless young man who yearns for fame as an actor makes
love to the daughter of a rich man; she contracts a venereal
disease. The young man finds an aging actress who supports
him in exchange for love-making. His downfall comes when
PREMISE 5

he is castrated by a mob driven by the girl's father. For this

play the premise is: "Ruthless ambition leads to destruc-
tion."
Juno and the Paycock, BY SEAN O'CASEY
Captain Boyle, a shiftless, boastful drinker, is told that a
rich relative died and left him a large sum of money, which
will shortly be paid to him. Immediately Boyle and his wife,
Juno, prepare themselves for a life of ease: they borrow money
from neighbors on the strength of the coming inheritance,
buy gaudy furniture, and Boyle spends large sums on drink.
It later develops that the inheritance will never come to them,
because the will was worded vaguely. The angry creditors de-
scend on them and strip the house. Woe piles on woe: Boyle's
daughter, having been seduced, is about to have a baby; his
son is killed, and his wife and daughter leave him. At the end,
Boyle has nothing left; he has hit bottom.
Premise: "Shiftlessness leads to ruin."
Shadow and Substance, BY PAUL VINCENT CARROLL
Thomas Skeritt, canon in a small Irish community, refuses
to admit that his servant, Bridget, has really seen visions of
Saint Bridget, her patron saint. Thinking her mentally de-
ranged, he tries to send her away on a vacation and, above
all, refuses to perform a miracle which, according to the serv-
ant, Saint Bridget requests of him. In trying to rescue a school-
master from an angry crowd, Bridget is killed, and the canon
loses his pride before the girl's pure, simple faith.
Premise: "Faith conquers pride."
We are not sure that the author of Juno and the Paycock
knew that his premise was "Shiftlessness leads to ruin." The
son's death, for instance, has nothing to do with the main
concept of the drama. Sean O'Casey has excellent character
studies, but the second act stands still because he had only a
nebulous idea to start his play with. That is why he missed
writing a truly great play.
6 PREMISE

Shadow and Substance, on the other hand, has two premises.

In the first two acts and the first three quarters of the last act,
the premise is: "Intelligence conquers superstition." At the
end, suddenly and without warning, "intelligence" of the
premise changes to "faith," and "superstition" to "pride."
The canon—the pivotal character—changes like a chameleon
into something he was not a few moments before. The play
becomes muddled in consequence.

Every good play must have a well-formulated premise.

There may be more than one way to phrase the premise, but,
however it is phrased, the thought must be the same.
Playwrights usually get an idea, or are struck by an unusual
situation, and decide to write a play around it.
The question is whether that idea, or that situation, pro-
vides sufficient basis for a play. Our answer is no, although we
are aware that out of a thousand playwrights, nine hundred
and ninety-nine start this way.
No idea, and no situation, was ever strong enough to carry
you through to its logical conclusion without a clear-cut
premise.
If you have no such premise, you may modify, elaborate,
vary your original idea or situation, or even lead yourself into
another situation, but you will not know where you are going.
You will flounder, rack your brain to invent further situations
to round out your play. You may find these situations—and
you will still be without a play.
You must have a premise—a premise which will lead you
unmistakably to the goal your play hopes to reach.
Moses L. Malevinsky says in The Science of Playwrighting:
Emotion, or the elements in or of an emotion, constitute the
basic things in life. Emotion is life. Life is emotion. Therefore
emotion is drama. Drama is emotion.
No emotion ever made, or ever will make, a good play if
PREMISE 7

we do not know what kind of forces set emotion going.

Emotion, to be sure, is as necessary to a play as barking to a
dog.
Mr. Malevinsky's contention is that if you accept his basic
principle, emotion, your problem is solved. He gives you a list
of basic emotions—desire, fear, pity, love, hate—any one of
which, he says, is a sound base for your play. Perhaps. But it
will never help you to write a good play, because it designates
no goal. Love, hate, any basic emotion, is merely an emotion.
It may revolve around itself, destroying, building—and get-
ting nowhere.
It may be that an emotion does find itself a goal and sur-
prises even the author. But this is an accident and far too
uncertain to offer the young playwright as a method. Our aim
is to eliminate chance and accident. Our aim is to point a road
on which anyone who can write may travel and eventually
find himself with a sure approach to drama. So, the very first
thing you must have is a premise. And it must be a premise
worded so that anyone can understand it as the author in-
tended it to be understood. An unclear premise is as bad as no
premise at all.
The author using a badly worded, false, or badly con-
structed premise finds himself filling space and time with
pointless dialogue—even action—and not getting anywhere
near the proof of his premise. Why? Because he has no direc-
tion.
Let us suppose that we want to write a play about a frugal
character. Shall we make fun of him? Shall we make him ridic-
ulous, or tragic? We don't know, yet. We have only an idea,
which is to depict a frugal man. Let us pursue the idea further.
Is it wise to be frugal? To a degree, yes. But we do not want
to write about a man who is moderate, who is prudent, who
wisely saves for a rainy day. Such a man is not frugal; he is far-
sighted. We are looking for a man who is so frugal he denies
himself bare necessities. His insane frugality is such that he
8 PREMISE

loses more in the end than he gains. We now have the prem-
ise for our play: "Frugality leads to waste."
The above premise—for that matter, every good premise
—is composed of three parts, each of which is essential to a
good play. Let us examine "Frugality leads to waste." The
first part of this premise suggests character—a frugal charac-
ter. The second part, "leads to" suggests conflict, and the third
part, "waste/' suggests the end of the play.
Let us see if this is so. "Frugality leads to waste." The prem-
ise suggests a frugal person who, in his eagerness to save his
money, refuses to pay his taxes. This act necessarily evokes a
counteraction—conflict—from the state, and the frugal per-
son is forced to pay triple the original amount.
"Frugality/' then, suggests character; "leads to" suggests
conflict; "waste" suggests the end of the play.
A good premise is a thumbnail synopsis of your play.
Here are a few other premises:
Bitterness leads to false gaiety.
Foolish generosity leads to poverty.
Honesty defeats duplicity.
Heedlessness destroys friendship.
Ill-temper leads to isolation.
Materialism conquers mysticism.
Prudishness leads to frustration.
Bragging leads to humiliation.
Confusion leads to frustration.
Craftiness digs its own grave.
Dishonesty leads to exposure.
Dissipation leads to self-destruction.
Egotism leads to loss of friends.
Extravagance leads to destitution.
Fickleness leads to loss of self-esteem.

Although these are only flat statements, they contain all

that is required of a well-constructed premise: character, con-
PREMISE 9

flict, and conclusion. What is wrong, then? What is missing?

The author's conviction is missing. Until he takes sides,
there is no play. Only when he champions one side of the issue
does the premise spring to life. Does egotism lead to loss o£
friends? Which side will you take? We, the readers or specta-
tors of your play, do not necessarily agree with your convic-
tion. Through your play you must therefore prove to us the
validity of your contention.

QUESTION: I am a bit confused. Do you mean to tell me that

without a clear-cut premise I can't start to write a play?
ANSWER: Of course you can. There are many ways to find your
premise. Here is one.
If you notice enough peculiarities in your Aunt Clara
or Uncle Joshua, for instance, you may feel they possess
excellent material for a play, but you will probably not
think of a premise immediately. They are exciting char-
acters, so you study their behavior, watch every step they
make. You decide that Aunt Clara, though a religious fa-
natic, is a busybody, a gossip. She butts into everybody's
affairs. Perhaps you know of several couples who sepa-
rated because of Aunt Clara's malicious interference. You
still have no premise. You have no idea yet what makes this
woman do what she does. Why does Aunt Clara take such
devilish joy in making a lot of trouble for innocent people?
Since you intend to write a play about her because her
character fascinates you, you'll try to discover as much as
possible about her past and present. The moment you start
on your fact-finding journey, whether you know it or not,
you have taken the first step toward finding a premise. The
premise is the motivating power behind everything we do.
So you will ask questions of your relatives and of your par-
ents about the. past conduct of Aunt Clara. You may be
shocked to learn that this religious fanatic in her youth was
not exactly moral. She sowed her wild oats promiscuously.
10 PREMISE

A woman committed suicide when Aunt Clara alienated

her husband's affections and later married him. But, as usu-
ally happens in such cases, the shadow of the dead woman
haunted them until the man disappeared. She loved this
man madly and saw in this desertion the finger of God. She
became a religious fanatic. She made a resolution to spend
her remaining years doing penance. She started to reform
everyone she came in contact with. She interfered with peo-
ple's lives. She spied on innocent lovers who hid in dark
corners whispering sweet nothings. She exhorted them for
their sinful thoughts and actions. In short, she became a
menace to the community.
The author who wants to write this play still has no
premise. No matter. The story of Aunt Clara's life slowly
takes shape nevertheless. There are still many loose ends
to which the playwright can return later, when he has found
his premise. The question to ask right now is: what will be
the end of this woman? Can she go on the rest of her life
interfering with and actually crippling people's lives? Of
course not. But since Aunt Clara is still alive and going
strong on her self-appointed crusade, the author has to de-
termine what will be the end of her, not in reality, but in
the play.
Actually, Aunt Clara might live to be a hundred and die
in an accident or in bed, peacefully. Will that help the play?
Positively not. Accident would be an outside factor which
is not inherent in the play. Sickness and peaceful death,
ditto. Her death—if death it will be—must spring from
her actions. A man or woman whose life she wrecked might
take vengeance on her and send her back to her Maker. In
her overzealousness she might overstep all bounds, go
against the Church itself, and be excommunicated. Or she
might find herself in such compromising circumstances that
only suicide could extricate her.
Whichever of these three possible ends is chosen, the
PREMISE 11

premise will suggest itself: "Extremity (whichever it is)

leads to destruction." Now you know the beginning and
the end of your play. She was promiscuous to start with,
this promiscuity caused a suicide, and she lost the one per-
son she ever really loved. This tragedy brought about her
slow but persistent transformation into a religious fanatic.
Her fanaticism wrecked lives, and in turn her life was taken.
No, you don't have to start your play with a premise. You
can start with a character or an incident, or even a simple
thought. This thought or incident grows, and the story
slowly unfolds itself. You have time to find your premise in
the mass of your material later. The important thing is to
find it.
QUESTION: Can I use a premise, let us say, "Great love de-
fies even death," without being accused of plagiarism?
ANSWER: YOU can use it with safety. Although the seed is the
same as that of Romeo and Juliet, the play will be different.
You never have seen, and never will see, two exactly similar
oak trees. The shape of a tree, its height and strength, will
be determined by the place and the surroundings where
the seeds happen to fall and germinate. No two dramatists
think or write alike. Ten thousand playwrights can take the
same premise, as they have done since Shakespeare, and not
one play will resemble the other except in the premise.
Your knowledge, your understanding of human nature,
and your imagination will take care of that.
QUESTION: IS it possible to write one play on two premises?
ANSWER: It is possible, but it will not be a good play. Can you
go in two different directions at the same time? The dram-
atist has a big enough job on his hands to prove one premise,
let alone two or three. A play with more than one premise
is necessarily confused.
The Philadelphia Story, by Philip Barry, is one of this
type. The first premise in this play is: "Sacrifice on both
sides is necessary for a successful marriage." The second
12 PREMISE

premise is: "Money, or the lack of it, is not solely respon-

sible for a man's character."
Another play of this kind is Skylark, by Samson Raphael-
son. The premises are: "A wealthy woman needs an anchor
in life" and "A man who loves his wife will make sacrifices
for her."
Not only do these plays have two premises, but the prem-
ises are inactive and badly stated.
Good acting, excellent production, and clever dialogue
may spell success sometimes, but they alone will never make
a good play.
Don't think that every produced play has a clear-cut
premise, although there is an idea behind every play. In
Night Music, by Clifford Odets, for instance, the premise
is: "Young people must face the world with courage." It
has an idea, but not an active premise.
Another play with an idea, but a confused one, is Wil-
liam Saroyan's The Time of Your Life. The premise, "Life
is wonderful," is a sprawling, formless thing, as good as no
premise at all.
QUESTION: It is hard to determine just what is the basic emo-
tion in a play. Take Romeo and Juliet, for instance. With-
out hate of the two families, the lovers could have lived
happily. Instead of love, it seems to me that hate is the basic
emotion in this play.
ANSWER: Did hate subdue these youngsters' love for each
other? It did not. It spurred them to greater effort. Their
love deepened with each adversity. They were willing to
give up their name, they dared their family's hatred, and,
at the end, gave their life for love. Hatred was vanquished
at the end, not their love. Love was on trial by hatred, and
love won with flying colors. Love did not grow out of hatred,
but despite hatred love flourished. As we see it, the basic
emotion of Romeo and Juliet is still love.
PREMISE 13

QUESTION: I still don't know how to determine which is the

basic trend or emotion in a play.
ANSWER: Let us take another example, then: Ghosts, by Ibsen.
The premise of this play is: "The sins of the fathers are
visited on the children." Let us see if it is so. Captain Alving
sowed his wild oats both before and after his marriage. He
died of syphilis contracted during his escapades. He left a
son, who inherited this disease from him. Oswald, the son,
grew to be imbecilic, and was doomed to die with the mer-
ciful help of his own mother. All the other issues of the play,
including the love affair with the maid, grew out of the
above premise. The premise of the play obviously deals
with heredity.

Lillian Hellman started work on an idea drawn from one

of William Roughead's reports of old Scottish trials. In
1830 or thereabouts, a little Indian girl succeeded in dis-
rupting a British school. Lillian Hellman's first success,
The Children's Hour, was based on this situation, reports
Robert van Gelder in The New York Times, April 21st,
1941. The interview goes on:
"The evolution of Watch on the Rhine," said Miss Hellman,
"is quite involved and, I'm afraid, not very interesting. When
I was working on The Little Foxes I hit on the idea—well,
there's a small Midwestern American town, average or perhaps
a little more isolated than average, and into that town Europe
walks in the form of a titled couple—a pair of titled Europeans
—pausing on their way to the West Coast, I was quite excited,
thought of shelving the foxes to work on it. But when I did
get to it I couldn't get it moving. It started all right—and then
stuck.
"Later I had another idea. What would be the reactions of
some sensitive people who had spent much of their lives starv-
ing in Europe and found themselves as house guests in the
home of some very wealthy Americans? What would they make
14 PREMISE

of all the furious rushing around, the sleeping tablets taken

when there is no time to sleep them off, the wonderful dinners
ordered and never eaten, and so on and so on. . . . That play
didn't work either. I kept worrying at it, and the earlier people,
the titled couple, returned continually. It would take all after-
noon and probably a lot of tomorrow to trail all the steps that
made those two plays into Watch on the Rhine. The titled couple
are still in, but as minor characters. The Americans are nice peo-
ple, and so on. All is changed, but the new play grew out of the
other two."

A playwright might work on a story for weeks before dis-

covering that he really needs a premise, which will show the
destination of his play. Let us trace an idea which will slowly
arrive at a premise. Let us assume that you want to write a
play about love.
What kind of love? Well, it must be a great love, you de-
cide, one that will overcome prejudice, hatred, adversity, one
that cannot be bought or bargained with. The audience
should be moved to tears at the sacrifice the lovers make for
each other, at the sight of love triumphant. This is the idea,
and it is not a bad one. But you have no premise, and until
you choose one you cannot write your fine play.
There is a fairly obvious premise implicit in your idea:
"Love defies all." But this is an ambiguous statement. It
says too much and therefore says nothing. What is this "all"?
You might answer that it is obstacles, but we can still ask:
"What obstacles?" And if you say that "Love can move moun-
tains," we are justified in asking what good will that do?
In your premise you must designate exactly how great this
love is, show exactly what its destination is, and how far it
will go.
Let us go all the way and show a love so great that it con-
quers even death. Our premise is clear-cut: "Does love defy
even death?" The answer in this case is "Yes." It designates
the road the lovers will travel. They will die for love. It is
PREMISE 15

an active premise, so that when you ask what love will defy,
it is possible to answer "death," categorically. As a result,
you not only know how far your lovers are willing to go; you
also have an inkling as to the kind of characters they are, the
characters they must be to carry the premise to its logical
conclusion.
Can this girl be silly, unemotional, scheming? Hardly. Can
the boy, or man, be superficial, flighty? Hardly—unless they
are shallow only until they meet. Then the battle would be-
gin, first, against the trivial lives they had been living, then
against their families, religions, and all the other motivating
factors aligned against them. As they go along they will grow
in stature, strength, determination, and, at the end, despite
even death—in death—they will be united.
If you have a clear-cut premise, almost automatically a
synopsis unrolls itself. You elaborate on it, providing the mi-
nute details, the personal touches.
We are taking it for granted that if you choose the above
premise," Great love defies even death," you believe in it.
You should believe in it, since you are to prove it. You
must show conclusively that life is worthless without the
loved one. And if you do not sincerely believe that this is so,
you will have a very hard time trying to provide the emo-
tional intensity of Nora, in A Doll's House, or of Juliet, in
Romeo and Juliet.
Did Shakespeare, Moliere, and Ibsen believe in their own
premises? Almost certainly. But if they did not, their genius
was strong enough to feel what they described, to relive their
heroes' lives so intensely that they convinced the audience
of their sincerity.
You, however, should not write anything you do not be-
lieve. The premise should be a conviction of your own, so
that you may prove it wholeheartedly. Perhaps it is a prepos-
terous premise to me—it must not be so to you.
Although you should never mention your premise in the
l6 PREMISE

dialogue of your play, the audience must know what the mes-
sage is. And whatever it is, you must prove it.
We have seen how an idea—the usual preliminary to a
play—may come to you at any time. And we have seen why
it must be turned into a premise. The process of changing
an idea into a premise is not a difficult one. You can start to
write your play any way—even haphazardly—if, at the end, all
the necessary parts are in place.
It may be that the story is complete in your mind, but you
still have no premise. Can you proceed to write your play?
You had better not, however finished it seems to you. If jeal-
ousy predicated the sad ending, obviously you might have
written a play about jealousy. But have you considered where
this jealousy sprang from? Was the woman flirtatious? The
man inferior? Did a friend of the family force his attentions
upon the woman? Was she bored with her husband? Did the
husband have mistresses? Did she sell herself to help out her
sick husband? Was it just a misunderstanding? And so forth.
Every one of these possibilities needs a different premise.
For instance: "Promiscuity during marriage leads to jealousy
and murder/' If you take this as your premise, you'll know
what caused jealousy in this particular instance, and that it
leads the promiscuous person to kill or be killed. The prem-
ise will suggest the one and only road that you must take.
Many premises can deal with jealousy, but in your case there
will be only one motivating power which will drive your play
to its inevitable conclusion. A promiscuous person will act
differently from one who is not promiscuous, or from a woman
who sells herself to help keep her husband alive. Although
you may have the story set in your mind or even on paper,
you cannot necessarily dispense with a clear-cut premise.
It is idiotic to go about hunting for a premise, since, as we
have pointed out, it should be a conviction of yours. You
know what your own convictions are. Look them over. Per-
PREMISE 17

haps you are interested in man and his idiosyncrasies. Take

just one of those peculiarities, and you have material for sev-
eral premises.
Remember the fable about the elusive bluebird? A man
searched all over the world for the bluebird of happiness, and
when he returned home he found it had been there all the
time. It is unnecessary to torture your brain, to weary your-
self by searching for a premise, when there are so many ready
to hand. Anyone who has a few strong convictions is a mine
of premises.
Suppose you do find a premise in your wanderings. At best
it is alien to you. It did not grow from you; it is not part of
you. A good premise represents the author.
We are taking it for granted that you want to write a fine
play, something which will endure. The strange thing is that
.all plays, including farces, are better when the author feels
he has something important to say.
Does this hold for so light a form as the crime play? Let us
see. You have a brilliant idea for a drama in which someone
commits the "perfect crime." You work it out in minutest de-
tail, until you are sure it is thrilling and will hold any audi-
ence spellbound. You tell it to your friend, and he is—bored.
You are shocked. What's wrong? Perhaps you'd better get the
opinion of others. You do, and receive polite encouragement.
But you feel in your marrow that they do not like it. Are they
all morons? You begin to doubt your play. You rework it, fix-
ing a little here, a little there—and go back to your friends.
They've heard the darned thing before, so they're honestly
bored now. A few go so far as to tell you so. Your heart sinks.
You still do not know what is wrong, but you do know that
the play is bad. You hate it and try to forget it.
Without seeing your play we can tell you what was wrong
with it: it had no clear-cut premise. And if there is no clear-
cut, active premise, it is more than possible that the characters
18 PREMISE

were not alive. How could they be? They do not know, for
instance, why they should commit a perfect crime. Their only
reason is your command, and as a result all their performance
and all their dialogue are artificial. No one believes what they
do or say.
You may not believe it, but the characters in a play are sup-
posed to be real people. They are supposed to do things for
reasons of their own. If a man is going to commit the perfect
crime, he must have a deep-rooted motivation for doing so.
Crime is not an end in itself. Even those who commit crime
through madness have a reason. Why are they mad? What
motivated their sadism, their lust, their hate? The reasons
behind the events are what interest us. The daily papers are
full of reports of murder, arson, rape. After a while we are
honestly nauseated with them. Why should we go to the the-
ater to see them, if not to find out why they were done?
A young girl murders her mother. Horrible. But why? What
were the steps that led to the murder? The more the dram-
atist reveals, the better the play. The more you can reveal of
the environment, the physiology and the psychology of the
murderer, and his or her personal premise, the more success-
ful you will be.
Everything in existence is closely related to everything
else. You cannot treat any subject as though it were isolated
from the rest of life.
If the reader accepts our reasoning, he will drop the idea
of writing a play about how someone committed a perfect
crime, and turn to why someone did.
Let us go through the steps of planning a crime play, seeing
how the various elements fit together.
What shall the crime be? Embezzlement, blackmail, theft,
murder? Let us choose murder, and get on to the criminal.
Why would he kill? For lust? Money? Revenge? Ambition?
To right a wrong? There are so many types of murder that
we must answer this question at once. Suppose we choose am-
PREMISE 19

bition as the motive behind the murder and see where it leads
us.
The murderer must reach a position where someone stands
in his way. He will try everything to influence the man who
stands in his path, he will do anything to win his favor. Per-
haps the men become friends, and the murder is averted. But
no—the prospective victim must be adamant, else there will
be no murder—and no play. But why should he be adamant?
We don't know, because we don't know our premise.
We might stop here for a moment and see how the play
would turn out if we continued without a premise. But that
is unnecessary. Just a glance at what we have to work with
will indicate how flimsy the structure is. A man is going to
kill another man who thwarts his ambition. That has been
the idea behind hundreds of plays, but it is far too weak to
serve as the basis for a synopsis. Let us look more deeply into
the elements we have here and find an active premise.
The murderer will kill to win his goal. He's not a fine type
of man, certainly. Murder is a high price to pay for one's am-
bition, and it takes a ruthless man to— That's itl Our killer
is ruthless—blind to everything but his selfish ends.
He's a dangerous man, of no benefit to society. Suppose he
succeeds in escaping the consequences of his crime? Suppose
he attains a position of responsibility? Think of the harm he
might dol Why, he might continue his ruthless path indefi-
nitely, never knowing anything but success! But could he? Is
it possible for a man of ruthless ambition to succeed com-
pletely? It is not. Ruthlessness, like hate, carries the seeds of
its own destruction. SplendidI Then we have the premise:
"Ruthless ambition leads to its own destruction."
We know now that our killer will commit a murder as per-
fect as possible, but that he will be destroyed at the end by
his ambition. It opens up unlimited possibilities.
We know our ruthless killer. There is more to know, of
course. The understanding of a character is not as simple as
20 PREMISE

this, as we shall show in our chapter on character. But it is

our premise which has given us the outstanding traits of our
main character.
"Ruthless ambition leads to its own destruction" is the
premise of Shakespeare's Macbeth, as we pointed out before.
There are as many ways to arrive at a premise as there are
playwrights—more, since most playwrights use more than
one method.
Let us take another example.
Suppose a dramatist, on his way home one night, sees a
group of youngsters attack a passer-by. He is outraged. Boys
of sixteen, eighteen, twenty—and hardened criminalsl He
is so impressed that he decides to write a play on juvenile de-
linquency. But he realizes that the subject is endless. What
exact phase shall he deal with? Holdup, he decides. It was a
holdup which so impressed him, and he trusts it will affect an
audience the same way.
The kids are stupid, the dramatist reflects. If they are
caught their lives are over. They will be sentenced to from
twenty years to life imprisonment for robbery. What fools!
"I'll bet," he thinks further, "that their victim had very little
money on him. They were risking their lives for nothing!"
Yes, yes, it's a good idea for a play, and he starts to work
on it. But the story refuses to grow. After all, you can't write
three acts about a holdup. The playwright storms, bewildered
by his inability to write a play on what he is sure is a fine idea.
A holdup is a holdup. Nothing new. The unusual angle
might be the youth of the criminals. But why should such
youngsters steal? Perhaps their parents don't give a thought
to them. Perhaps their fathers are drunk, wrapped up in their
own problems. But why should they be? Why should they
turn to drink and neglect their children? There are so many
boys like this—not all their fathers can be habitual drunkards,
men without any love for their children. Well, they may be
men who have lost their authority over their children. They
PREMISE 21

may be very poor, unable to support their children. Why don't

they look for work? Oh, yes, the depression. There is no work,
and these kids have lived their lives on the street. Poverty,
neglect, and dirt are all they have known. These things are
powerful motivation toward crime.
And it is not only the boys in this one slum section. Thou-
sands of boys, all over the country, poverty-ridden, turn to
crime as a way out. Poverty has pushed them, encouraged
them, to become criminals. That's it! "Poverty encourages
crime!" We have our premise, and the dramatist has his.
He looks around for a locality in which to set his drama.
He remembers his own childhood, or something he has seen,
or a newspaper clipping. At any rate, he thinks of various lo-
calities which might well encourage crime. He studies the
people, the houses, the influences, the reason for the poverty
abounding. He investigates what the city has done about these
conditions.
Then he turns to the boys. Are they really stupid? Or have
neglect, illness, near-starvation made them so? He decides to
concentrate on one character—the one who will help him
write the story. He finds him: a nice kid, sixteen years old,
with a sister. The father has disappeared, leaving behind the
two kids and a sick wife. He could not find a job, became dis-
gusted with life in general, and left home. His wife died soon
after. The girl of eighteen insisted she could look after her
brother. She loved him, and it was unthinkable to live with-
out him. She'd work. An orphan asylum could have taken
Johnny, of course, but then "Poverty encourages crime"
would be senseless as a premise. So Johnny prowls the streets
while his sister works in a factory.
Johnny has his own philosophy about everything. Other
children look to their teachers and parents for guidance.
These teach: be obedient, be honest. Johnny knows from his
own experience that this is all bunk. If he obeys the law he
will go hungry many a day. So he has his own premise: "If
22 PREMISE

you're smart enough you can get away with anything." He

has seen it proved time and again. He has stolen things and
got away with it. Against Johnny stands the law, whose prem-
ise is: "You can't get away with it," or "Crime doesn't pay."
Johnny has his own heroes, too. Guys who got away with
it. He is sure they can outsmart any cop. There is Jack Colley,
a local boy, for instance. He came from this very neighbor-
hood. All the cops in the nation were chasing him, and he
made fools of them. He's tops.
To know Johnny as you should, find out about his back-
ground, his education, ambition, hero worship, inspiration,
friends. Then the premise will cover him and millions of
other kids perfectly.
If you see only that Johnny is a roughneck, and you don't
know why, then you will need, and find, another premise, per-
haps: "The lack of a strong police force encourages criminals."
Of course, the question arises as to whether this is true. An
ignorant person might say yes. But you will have to explain
why millionaires' sons do not go out and steal bread, like
Johnny. If there were more police, would poverty and misery
diminish in proportion? Experience says no. Then "Poverty
encourages crime" is a truer, more practical premise.
It is the premise of Dead End, by Sidney Kingsley.

You must decide just how you are going to treat your
premise. Will you indict society? Will you show poverty and
a way out of poverty? Kingsley decided to show poverty only
and let the audience draw its own conclusions. If you wish to
add anything to what Kingsley said, make a subpremise which
will enlarge the original one. Enlarge it again, if necessary,
so that it will fit your case perfectly. If in the process you find
your premise untenable because you have changed your mind
as to what you wished to say, formulate a new premise and
discard the old,
"2s society responsible for poverty?" Whichever side you
PREMISE 23

take, you must prove it. Of course, this play will differ from
Kingsley's. You can formulate any number of premises—
"poverty," "love," "hate"—choosing the one that satisfies
you most.
You can arrive at your premise in any one of a great many
ways. You may start with an idea which you at once convert
to a premise, or you may develop a situation first and see that
it has potentialities which need only the right premise to give
them meaning and suggest an end.
Emotion can dictate many premises, but you must elab-
orate them before they can express the dramatist's idea. Test
this with an emotion: jealousy. Jealousy feeds on the sen-
sations generated by an inferiority complex. Jealousy, as such,
cannot be a premise, because it designates no goal for the
characters. Would it be better if we put it thus: "Jealousy
destroys"? No, although we now know what action it takes.
Let us go further: "Jealousy destroys itself." Now there is a
goal. We know, and the dramatist knows, that the play will
continue until jealousy has destroyed itself. The author may
build on it as he chooses, saying, perhaps, "Jealousy destroys
not only itself but the object of its love."
We hope the reader recognizes the difference between' the
last two premises. The variations are endless, and with each
new variation the premise of the play is changed. But when-
ever you change your premise, you will have to go back to
the beginning and rewrite your synopsis in terms of the new
premise. If you start out with one premise and switch to an-
other, the play will suffer. No one can build a play on two
premises, or a house on two foundations.

Tartuffe, by Moliere, offers a good example of how a play

grows out of a premise. (See synopsis and analysis on page 274.)
The premise of Tartuffe is: "He who digs a pit for others
falls into it himself"
The play opens with Mme Pernelle upbraiding her son's
24 PREMISE

youthful second wife, Elmire, and her grandson and grand-

daughter because they are not showing proper respect for
Tartuffe. Tartuffe was taken into the house by her son, Orgon.
Tartuffe is obviously a scoundrel masquerading as a holy
man. Tartuffe's real objective is to have an illicit love affair
with Orgon's wife and to take possession of his fortune. His
piousness has captured Orgon's heart, and he now believes in
Tartuffe as if he were the Saviour incarnate. But let's go back
to the very beginning of the play.
The author's objective is to establish the first part of the
premise as quickly as possible. Mme Pernelle is speaking:
MME P.: [To Damis, her grandson] If Tartuffe thinks anything
sinful you can depend upon it that sinful it is. He is seeking to
lead you all on the road to heaven, if you would but follow him.
DAMIS: I'll travel no road in his company!
MME P.: That is not only foolish but a wicked thing to say. Your
father both loves and trusts him, which should surely dispose
you to do likewise.
DAMIS: Neither Father nor anyone else could induce me to love
him or trust himl I loathe the fellow and all his ways, and I
should lie if I said I did not. And if he tries to domineer over
me again, I'll break his head for him.
DORINE: [The maid] Truly, Madame, it is not to be borne that an
unknown person who came here penniless and in rags should
take it on himself to upset everything and rule over the whole
house.
MME P.: I did not ask for your opinion. [To the others] It would
be well for this household if he did rule over it.
(This is the first hint of what is actually going to happen
later, when Orgon entrusts him with his fortune.)
DORINE: YOU may think him a saint, Madame, but to my mind he's
a good deal more like a hypocrite.
DAMIS: I'll be sworn he is.
MME P.: Hold your malicious tongues, both of you—! I know you
all dislike him—and why? Because he sees your faults and has
the courage to tell you of them.
PREMISE 25
PORINE:He does more than that. He is seeking to prevent Madame
from entertaining any company at all. Why should he rave and
thunder at her as he does for receiving an ordinary caller?
Where's the harm in it? It's my belief that it's all because he's
jealous of herl
(Yes, he is jealous, as we'll find out later. Moliere takes good
care to motivate everything beforehand.)
ELMIRE: Dorine, that is nonsensel
MME P.: It's worse than nonsense. Think what you've dared to
hint, girl, and be properly ashamed of yourself! [To the others]
It is not dear Tartuffe alone who disapproves of your excessive
love of company—it's the whole neighborhood.
My son never did a wiser thing in his life than bringing
worthy Tartuffe into this house, for if anyone can recall wander-
ing sheep to the fold, it is he. And if you are wise in time you
will heed his warnings that all your visiting, your routs, your
balls are so many subtle devices of the Evil One for your soul's
destruction.
ELMIRE: Why, Mother? For the pleasure we take in such gather-
ings is innocent enough.

If you reread the premise, you will notice that someone

—in this case, Tartuffe—will ensnare innocent, believing
persons—Orgon and his mother—with his hypocritical pre-
tension of saintliness. T h i s will enable him later to take
possession of Orgon's fortune and make the lovely Elmire his
mistress—if he succeeds.
In the very beginning of the play we feel that this happy
family is threatened with dire disaster. We didn't get a glimpse
of Orgon yet, only of his mother taking up the cudgel for the
pseudo saint. Can it be true that a man in his senses, an ex-
army officer, believes in another man so implicitly that he may
give him a chance to play havoc with his family? If he does
believe so much in Tartuffe, the author established the first
part of his premise explicitly.
We have witnessed, then, how Tartuffe, with subtle meth-
26 PREMISE

ods, and with the help of Orgon, his intended victim, is dig-
ging a pit for Orgon. Will he fall into it? We don't know yet.
But our interest is aroused. Let us see whether Orgon's faith
in Tartuffe is as firm as his mother wants us to believe.
Orgon has just arrived home from a three-day journey. He
meets his second wife's brother, Cl£ante.
CL£ANTE: I heard you were expected shortly, and waited in the
hope of seeing you.
ORGON: That was kind. But you must pardon me if, before we
talk, I ask a question or two of Dorine here. [To Dorine] Has
all gone well during my absence?
DORINE: Not altogether. Monsieur. Madame was taken with the
fever the day before yesterday and suffered terribly from pains
in her head.
ORGON: Did she so? And Tartuffe?
DORINE: Oh, he's prodigiously well—bursting with health.
ORGON: Poor dear fellow!
DORINE: At supper that evening Madame was so ill that she could
not touch a morsel.
ORGON: Ah—and Tartuffe?
DORINE: He could manage no more than a brace of partridges' and
half a hashed leg of mutton.
ORGON: Poor dear fellow!
DORINE: Madame could get no sleep all that night, and we had to
sit up with her till daybreak.
ORGON: Indeed. And Tartuffe?
DORINE: Oh, he went straight from the table to his bed, where, to
judge by the sounds, he slept on sweetly till the morning was
well advanced.
ORGON: Poor dear fellow!
DORINE: But at last we persuaded Madame to let herself be bled,
which gave her relief at once.
ORGON: Good! And Tartuffe?
DORINE: He bore up bravely, and at breakfast next morning drank
four cups of red wine to replace what Madame had lost.
ORGON: Poor dear fellow!
DORINE: SO all is now well with both of them, Monsieur, and, with
PREMISE 27

your leave, I will now go and let Madame know you are re-
turned.
ORGON: DO SO, Dorine.
DORINE: [AS she reaches
arch at back] I will not fail to tell her how
concerned you were to hear of her illness. Monsieur. [She goes
off]
ORGON: [TO CUante] I could almost think she meant some im-
pertinence by that. ,
CLiANTE: And if she did, my dear Orgon, is there not some excuse
for her? Great heavens, man, how can you be so infatuated with
this Tartuffe? What do you see in him that makes you indif-
ferent to all others?

Obviously Orgon can't see the pit Tartuffe is digging for

him. Moliere unmistakably established his premise in the
first third of the play.
Tartuffe has dug a pit; will Orgon fall into it? We don't
know—and we're not supposed to know—until the end of
the play.
Needless to say, the same principles govern a short story,
novel, movie, or radio play.
Let us take Guy de Maupassant's short story, The Dia-
mond Necklace, and try to find the premise in it.
Mathilda, a young, daydreaming, vain woman borrowed a
diamond necklace from a wealthy schoolmate to wear to a
ball. She lost the necklace. Afraid to face the humiliating
consequences she and her husband mortgage their inheritance
and borrow money to buy a replica of the lost necklace. They
work for ten long weary years to repay their debt. They be-
come coarse, work-worn, ugly and old. Then they discover
that the original lost necklace had been made of paste.
What is the premise of this immortal story? We think it
started with her daydreaming. A daydreamer is not neces-
sarily a bad person. Daydreams are usually an escape from
reality;—a reality which the dreamer has no courage to face.
Daydreams are a substitute for action. Great minds are dream-
 28 PREMISE

ers too, but they translate their dreams into reality. Nikola
Tesla, for instance, was the greatest electrical wizard who ever
lived. He was a great dreamer, but he was a great doer too.
Mathilda was a good-natured but idle dreamer. Her dreams
led her exactly nowhere, until tragedy befell her.
We must examine her character. She lived in imaginary
luxury in a fairy castle where she was a queen. Naturally she
had a great deal of pride and couldn't humiliate herself by
admitting to her friend that she was unable to afford the price
of the lost necklace. Death was preferable to that. She had to
buy a new necklace even though she and her husband had to
work the rest of their lives for it. They did. She became a
drudge because of her vanity and false pride; inherent char-
acteristics which were the result of her daydreaming. Her
husband worked along with her because of his love for her.
The premise: "Escape from reality leads to a day of reckon-
ing-
Let us find the premise in A Lion Is in the Streetj a novel
by Adria Locke Langley.
Even in early youth Hank Martin was determined to be the
greatest of men. He peddled pins, ribbons, cosmetics, with the
idea of ingratiating himself with people to use them later on.
He did use them; so well that he became governor of his state.
Then he plundered the people until the multitude rose up
against him. He died a violent death.
Obviously the premise of this novel is: "Ruthless ambition
leads to its own destruction"
Now for Pride of the Marines, a motion picture from a
story by Albert Maltz.
This is the story of Al Schmid, wounded marine who be-
came blind in the war. At the rehabilitation hospital they
cannot induce him to go home to his fiancee. He feels that he is
useless to her now. He was brought home by a ruse; his sweet-
heart convinces him that she still wants him and that, al-
I though blind he can still hold a job. He gets a job and they
PREMISE 29

plan to get married. Although the doctors have given up hope

of his regaining his eyesight, he does begin to see a little.
premise: "Sacrificial love conquers hopelessness."
The pity of this otherwise promising motion picture is that
Al Schmid and, for that matter, the other characters too, never
find out what they were fighting for, and why Al lost his eye-
sight, even at the very end of the picture. Such knowledge
would have deepened the story considerably.
Earth and High Heaven, a novel by Gwethalynn Graham,
is the story of a wealthy Gentile Canadian girl who falls in love
with a Jewish lawyer. Her father refuses to accept the young
man and does everything in his power to break up the ro-
mance because of the man's religion. Father and daughter had
been devoted to each other. The girl must choose between
her father or the man she loves. She decides to marry her
sweetheart, thereby breaking off relations with her family.
Premise: "Intolerance leads to isolation."
Not all of these examples are of high literary value, but
they all have a clearly defined premise and this is a necessity
in all good writing. Without it, it is impossible to know your
characters. A premise has to contain; character, conflict and
resolution. It is impossible to know all this without a clear-
cut premise.
One more thing should be remembered. No one premise
is necessarily a universal truth. Poverty doesn't always lead to
crime, but if you've chosen this premise, it does in your case.
The same principle governs all premises.
The premise is the conception, the beginning of a play.
The premise is a seed and it grows into a plant that was con-
tained in the original seed; nothing more, nothing less. The
premise should not stand out like a sore thumb, turning the
characters into puppets and the conflicting forces into a me-
chanical set-up. In a well-constructed play or story, it is im-
possible to denote just where premise ends and story or char-
acter begins.
 30 . PREMISE

Rodin, the great French sculptor, had just finished the

statue of Honore de Balzac. The figure wore a long robe with
long loose sleeves. The hands were folded in front.
Rodin stepped back, exhausted but triumphant, and eyed
his work with satisfaction. It was a masterpiecel
Like any artist, he needed someone to share his happiness.
Although it was four o'clock in the morning, he hastened to
wake up one of his students.
The master rushed ahead with mounting excitement and
watched the young man's reaction.
The student's eyes slowly focused upon the hands.
"Wonderful!" he cried. "What hands. . . . Master, I've
never seen such marvelous hands before!"
Rodin's face darkened. A moment later Rodin swept out
of his studio again. A short while later he returned with
another student in tow.
The reaction was almost the same. As Rodin watched
eagerly, the pupil's gaze fastened on the hands of the statue
and stayed there.
"Master," the student said reverently, "only a God could
have created such hands. They are alive!"
Apparently Rodin had expected something else, for once
more he was off, now in a frenzy. When he returned he was
dragging another bewildered student with him.
"Those hands . . . those hands . . ." the new arrival ex-
claimed, in the same reverent tone as the others, "if you had
never done anything else, Master, those hands would make
you immortal!"
Something must have snapped in Rodin, for with a dis-
mayed cry he ran to a corner of the studio and grabbed a fear-
ful looking axe. He advanced toward the statue with the ap-
parent intention of smashing it to bits.
Horror stricken, his students threw themselves upon him,
but in his madness he shook them off with superhuman

ill
iiii
PREMISE 31

strength. He rushed to the statue and with one well aimed

blow, chopped off the magnificent hands.
Then he turned to his stupefied pupils, his eyes blazing.
"Foolsl" he cried. "I was forced to destroy these hands be-
cause they had a life of their own. They didn't belong to the
rest of the composition. Remember this, and remember it
well: no part is more important than the wholel"
And that's why the statue of Balzac stands in Paris, without
hands. The long loose sleeves of the robe appear to cover the
hands, but in reality Rodin chopped them off because they
seemed to be more important than the whole figure.
Neither the premise nor any other part of a play has a
separate life of its own. All must blend into an harmonious
whole.
 II
CHARACTER

1. The Bone Structure

IN THE previous chapter we showed why premise is necessary
as the first step in writing a good play. In the following chap-
ters we shall discuss the importance of character. We shall
vivisect a character and try to find out just what elements go
into this being called "man." Character is the fundamental
material we are forced to work with, so we must know char-
acter as thoroughly as possible.

Henrik Ibsen, speaking of his working methods, has said:

When I am writing I must be alone; if I have eight characters

of a drama to do with I have society enough; they keep me busy;
I must learn to know them. And this process of making their ac-
quaintance is slow and painful. I make, as a rule, three casts of
my dramas, which differ considerably from each other. I mean
in characteristics, not in the course of the treatment. When I first
settle down to work out my material, I feel as if I have to get to
know my characters on a railway journey; the first acquaintance
is struck up, and we have chatted about this and that. When I
write it down again, I already see everything much more clearly,
and I know the people as if I had stayed with them for a month
at a watering place. I have grasped the leading points of their
characters and their little peculiarities.

What did Ibsen see? What did he mean when he said, "I
have grasped the leading points of their characters and their
THE BONE STRUCTURE 33

little peculiarities." Let us try to discover the leading points

not only in one, but in all characters.
Every object has three dimensions: depth, height, width.
Human beings have an additional three dimensions: physi-
ology, sociology, psychology. Without a knowledge of these
three dimensions we cannot appraise a human being.
It is not enough, in your study of a man, to know if: he
is rude, polite, religious, atheistic, moral, degenerate. You
must know why. We want to know why man is as he is, why
his character is constantly changing, and why it must change
whether he wishes it or no.
The first dimension, in the order of simplicity, is the physi-
ological. It would be idle to argue that a hunchback sees the
world exactly opposite from a perfect physical specimen. A
lame, a blind, a deaf, an ugly, a beautiful, a tall, a short person
-^each of these sees everything differently from the other. A
sick man sees health as the supreme good; a healthy person be-
littles the importance of health, if he thinks of it at all.
Our physical make-up certainly colors our outlook on life.
It influences us endlessly, helping to make us tolerant, defiant,
humble, or arrogant. It affects our mental development, serves
as a basis for inferiority and superiority complexes. It is the
most obvious of man's first set of dimensions.
Sociology is the second dimension to be studied. If you
were born in a basement, and your playground was the dirty
city street, your reactions would differ from those of the boy
who was born in a mansion and played in beautiful and anti-
septic surroundings.
But we cannot make an exact analysis of your differences
from him, or from the little boy who lived next door in the
same tenement, until we know more about both of you. Who
was your father, your mother? Were they sick or well? What
was their earning power? Who were your friends? How did
you influence or affect them? How did they affect you? What
kind of clothes do you like? What books do you read? Do you
34 CHARACTER

go to church? What do you eat, think, like, dislike? Who are

you, sociologically speaking?
The third dimension, psychology, is the product of the
other two. Their combined influence gives life to ambition,
frustration, temperament, attitudes, complexes. Psychology,
then, rounds out the three dimensions.
If we wish to understand the action of any individual, we
must look at the motivation which compels him to act as he
does. Let us look first at his physical make-up.
Is he sick? He may have a lingering illness that he knows
nothing of, but the author must know about it because only
in this way can he understand the character. This illness af-
fects the man's attitude toward things about him. We certainly
behave differently during illness, convalescence, and perfect
health.
Does a man have big ears, bulging eyes, long hairy arms?
All these are likely to condition him to an outlook which
would affect his every action.
Docs he hate to talk about crooked noses, big mouths,
thick lips, big feet? Perhaps it is because he has one of these
defects. One human being takes such a physical liability with
resignation, another makes fun of himself, a third is resentful.
One thing is certain, no one escapes the effect of such a short-
coming. Does this character of ours possess a feeling of dis-
satisfaction with himself? It will color his outlook, quicken
his conflict with others, or make him sluggish and resigned.
But it will affect him.
Important as this physical dimension is, it is only part of
the whole. We must not forget to add the background for
this physical picture. These two will round out each other,
unite, and give birth to the third dimension, the mental state.
A sex pervert is a sex pervert, as far as the general public
is concerned. But to the psychologist he is the product of his
background, his physiology, his heredity, his education.
THE BONE STRUCTURE 35

If we understand that these three dimensions can provide

the reason for every phase of human conduct, it will be easy
for us to write about any character and trace his motivation
to its source.
Analyze any work of art which has withstood the ravages
of time, and you will find that it has lived, and will live, be-
cause it possesses the three dimensions. Leave out one of the
three, and although your plot may be exciting and you may
make a fortune, your play will still not be a literary success.
When you read drama criticisms in your daily papers you
encounter certain terminology time and again: dull, uncon-
vincing, stock characters (badly drawn, that is), familiar situ-
ations, boring. They all refer to one flaw—the lack of tridi-
mensional characters.
Don't believe, when your play is condemned as "familiar,"
that you must hunt for fantastic situations. The moment
your characters are rounded, in terms of the three dimen-
sions, you will find that they are not only exciting theater,
but novel as well.
Literature has many tridimensional characters—Hamlet,
for instance. We not only know his age, his appearance, his
state of health; we can easily surmise his idiosyncrasies. His
background, his sociology, give impetus to the play. We know
the political situation at the time, the relationship between
his parents, the events that have gone before and the effect
they have had upon him. We know his personal premise, and
its motivation. We know his psychology, and we can see clearly
how it results from his physical and sociological make-up. In
short, we know Hamlet as we can never hope to know our-
selves.
Shakespeare's great plays are built on characters: Macbeth,
King Lear, Othello, and the rest are striking examples of
tridimensionality.
(It is not our intention here to go into a critical analysis of
36 CHARACTER

famous plays. Suffice it to say that in every case the author

created characters, or intended to. How he succeeded, and
why, will be analyzed in another chapter.)
Euripides' Medea is a classical example of how a play should
grow out of character. The author did not need an Aphrodite
to cause Medea to fall in love with Jason. It was the custom of
those times to show the interference of the gods, but the be-
havior of the characters is logical without it. Medea, or any
woman, will love the man who appeals to her, and will some-
times make sacrifices hard to believe.
Medea had her brother slain for her love. Not long ago,
in New York, a woman lured her two children into a forest,
cut their throats, poured gasoline over them and burned them
—for love. There is no indication of the supernatural in this.
It is merely the good old-fashioned mating instinct run riot.
If we knew the background and the physical composition of
this modern Medea, her terrible deed would become com-
prehensible to us.
Here is a guide, then, a step-by-step outline of how a
tridimensional-character bone structure should look.

PHYSIOLOGY

i . Sex
a. Age
3. Height and weight
4. Color of hair, eyes, skin
5. Posture
6. Appearance: good-looking, over- or underweight, clean,
neat, pleasant, untidy. Shape of head, face, limbs.
7. Defects: deformities, abnormalities, birthmarks. Diseases.
8. Heredity
SOCIOLOGY

1. Class: lower, middle, upper.

3. Occupation: type of work, hours of work, income, con-
THE BONE STRUCTURE 37

dition of work, union or nonunion, attitude toward

organization, suitability for work.
«. Education: amount, kind of schools, marks, favorite sub-
jects, poorest subjects, aptitudes.
4. Home life: parents living, earning power, orphan, par-
ents separated or divorced, parents' habits, parents'
mental development, parents' vices, neglect. Char-
acter's marital status.
5. Religion
6. Race, nationality
7. Place in community: leader among friends, clubs, sports.
8. Political affiliations
9. Amusements, hobbies: books, newspapers, magazines he
reads.
PSYCHOLOGY
1. Sex life, moral standards
2. Personal premise, ambition
3. Frustrations, chief disappointments
4. Temperament: choleric, easygoing, pessimistic, optimis-
tic.
5. Attitude toward life: resigned, militant, defeatist.
6. Complexes: obsessions, inhibitions, superstitions, pho-
bias.
7. Extrovert, introvert, ambivert
8. Abilities: languages, talents.
9. Qualities: imagination, judgment, taste, poise,
xo. l.Q.

This is the bone structure of a character, which the author

must know thoroughly, and upon which he must build.

QUESTION: HOW can we fuse these three dimensions into a

unity?
ANSWER: Take the kids in Sidney Kingsley's Dead End, for
instance. All but one are physically well. There are no ap-
38 CHARACTER

parently serious complexes resulting from physical defi-

ciencies. In their lives, then, environment will be the decid-
ing factor. Hero worship; lack of education, of clothing,
of supervision; and, above all, the constant presence of
poverty and hunger will shape their views of the world,
and, as a consequence, their attitude and conduct toward
society. The three dimensions have combined to produce
one outstanding trait.
QUESTION: Would the same environment produce the same
reaction on each child, or will it affect them differently as
they differ from each other?
ANSWER: N O two individuals react identically, since no two
are the same. One boy may have no mental reservations:
he looks upon his juvenile crimes as preparation for a
glorious career as a gangster; another participates in the
mob activities from a sense of loyalty, or from fear, or to
build up a reputation for courage. Still another is aware
of the danger of his course, but sees no other way out of
poverty. Minute physical differences between the individ-
uals, and their psychological development, will influence
their reactions to the same sociological conditions. Science
will tell you that no two snowflakes have ever been dis-
covered to be identical. The slightest disturbance in the
atmosphere, the direction of the wind, the position of the
falling snowflake, will alter the pattern. Thus there is
endless variety in their design. The same law governs us all.
Whether one's father is always kind, or only kind occasion-
ally, or kind but once, or never kind, will profoundly affect
one's development. And if the paternal kindness coin-
cided with one's happiest and most contented moments, it
might pass unrecognized. Every move hinges upon the
peculiar circumstances of the given moment.
QUESTION: There are certain human manifestations which
do not appear to fall into the three categories. I've noticed
in myself periods of depression, or excitement, which seem
THE BONE STRUCTURE 39

unmotivated. Being observant, I've tried to track down the

source of these mysterious disturbances, without success.
I can truthfully say that these periods sometimes occurred
when I had no economic stress or mental anxiety. Why are
you laughing?
ANSWER: YOU remind me of a friend of mine—a writer—who
told me a strange story about himself. The incident oc-
curred when he was thirty years old. He was apparently
healthy; he had won recognition for his work; he earned
more money than he knew what to do with; he was married
and loved his wife and two children dearly. One day, to
his utter astonishment, he realized that he didn't give a
hoot about what was going to happen to his family, his
career, or his life. He was bored to distraction. Nothing
under the sun interested him; he anticipated everything his
friends said and did. He couldn't stand the same horrible
routine day after day, week after week; the same woman,
the same food, the same friends, the same murder stories in
the papers day in and day out. They almost drove him mad.
It was as mysterious as your case. Perhaps he had ceased to
love his wife? He had thought of that, and was desperate
enough to experiment. He did but with no success. He
found no difference in his love. He was honestly and truly
bored with life. He stopped writing, stopped seeing his
friends, and finally decided that he'd be better off dead.
The thought did not come in a moment of despair. He
reasoned it out coolly, without missing a heartbeat. The
earth had gone on for billions of years before his birth, he
mused, and would go on after his demise. What difference
could it make if he left a little before his appointed time?
So he sent his family away to a friend's home and sat
down to write his last letter, explaining his course of action
to his wife. It was not an easy letter to write. It did not
sound convincing, and he sweated over it as he had never
done over his plays. Suddenly he felt a sharp, abdominal
40 CHARACTER

cramp. There was a stabbing pain, persistent, excruciating.

He found himself in an awkward situation. He wanted to
kill himself, but it was idiotic to die with an ache in the
stomach. Besides, he had to finish his letter.
He decided that the sensible thing would be to take a
cathartic and ease th£ pain. He did so. When he went back
to his desk again to finish his last epistle, he found it harder
to write than ever. The reasons he had marshaled previ-
ously sounded fantastic to him—even stupid. He became
aware of the brilliant sunshine which played over his desk,
of the alternate light and shadow on the houses across the
street. The trees had never seemed so green and refreshing;
life had never seemed so desirable. He wanted to see, smell,
feel, walk. . . .
QUESTION: DO you mean to say that he had entirely lost his
desire to die?
ANSWER: Precisely. He found himself minus a clogged-up
body and plus a million reasons to live. He really was a
new man.
QUESTION: Then physical conditions can really influence the
mind so completely as to mean the difference between life
and death?
ANSWER: Ask your family doctor,
QUESTION: It seems to me that not every reaction of the mind
or body springs from a physical or economic cause. I know
cases—
ANSWER: We know cases, too. Let's say X falls in love with
a desirable girl. His love is unrequited, so he feels frus-
trated, becomes despondent, and winds up seriously ill.
But how can this be? Love, according to many, is ethereal,
outside the pale of economy or mere materialism. Shall
we investigate? Love, like all emotions, originates in the
brain. Brain, however one looks at it, is composed of tissue,
cells, blood vessels. This is purely physical. The slightest
physical disturbance registers first on the brain, which re-
THE BONE STRUCTURE 41

acts instantaneously. A serious disappointment has its effect

on the brain—the physical brain—which transmits the
message to the body. Remember that love, however ethe-
real, affects such physical functions as digestion and sleep-
ing.
QUESTION: But suppose the emotion isn't physical at all? Sup-
pose there aren't any factors like desire in it?
ANSWER: All emotion has physical effects. Let us take what is
supposed to be the noblest emotion of them all—mother
love. This particular mother has no financial difficulties.
She has plenty of money, she's healthy, she's happy. Her
daughter falls in love with a young man whom the mother
considers a liability rather than an asset. He is not danger-
ous in any way, merely unsuitable from the mother's point
of view. But the daughter runs away with him.
The mother's first reaction will be shock, followed by
bitter disappointment. Then will come shame, self-pity.
All of these might usher in an attack of hysteria. These at-
tacks increase in frequency and kind, weaken the resistance
of the body, and culminate in actual illness—even invalid-
ism.
QUESTION: IS all psychological reaction the result of your three
dimensions?
ANSWER: Let us see. Why did the mother object so strenuously
to the daughter's choice of husband? His appearance? Per-
haps, although the average mother hides her disappoint-
ment when her son-in-law is not an Adonis. Unless he is
actually a monster, his appearance should not cause a vio-
lent reaction. But in any case, the mother's disapproval of
his appearance would have been conditioned by her own
background, by what her father looked like, her brothers,
her favorite motion-picture star.
Another source of disappointment—and a more prob-
able one—would be the young man's financial status. If
he cannot support her daughter well, or at all, the mother
42 CHARACTER

will be a prey to fear for her daughter and for herself.

Even if she can afford to keep her daughter from poverty,
she cannot keep her friends from sneering at the poor
match. She may have to set the boy up in business—only to
find him a poor businessman who may lose all her savings.
Or perhaps the young man is handsome, and financially
stable, and of another race? All of the mother's training
will rise up against him. She will have a host of memories
springing up from her past: warnings of social ostracism,
of mythical differences between the races, of superstitions
and chauvinism completely without foundation.
Think of any reason you like, from the young man's
physical state through the birthplace of his great-grand-
father, and you will find that anything to which the mother
objects has a physical or sociological foundation, both in
him and in her. Try as you will, you must come back to
the three dimensions.
QUESTION: Might not this principle of tridimensionality limit
the scope of material for the writer?
ANSWER: On the contrary. It opens up undreamed-of per-
spectives and an entirely new world for exploration and
discovery.
QUESTION: YOU mentioned height, age, skin coloring, in your
outline of a character's bone structure. Must all these be
incorporated in our play?
ANSWER: YOU must know all of these, but they need not be
mentioned. They come through in the behavior of the char-
acter, not in any expository material about him. The atti-
tude of a man who is six feet in height will differ consider-
ably from that of a man who measures four feet, eight
inches. And the reaction of a woman with a pock-marked
face will not be the same as that of a girl famed for her
lovely complexion. You must know what your character is,
in every detail, to know what he will do in a given situation.
Anything that happens in your play must come directly
ENVIRONMENT 43

from the characters you have chosen to prove your premise,

and they must be characters strong enough to prove the
premise without forcing.

2. Environment
When a friend invites you to a party, and after a moment's
hesitation you reply, "All right, I'll be there," you are making
an unassuming statement. But that statement is the result of
a complicated mental process.
Your acceptance of the invitation may have sprung from
loneliness, from a desire to avoid a dull evening, from excess
physical energy, from desperation. You may have felt that
mingling with people would bring forgetfulness of a problem,
or new hope, or inspiration. The truth, however, is that even
such a simple matter as saying "yes" or "no" is the product of
elaborate reviewing, reshifting, revaluating of fancied or real,
mental or physical, economic or sociological conditions
around us.
Words have a complex structure. We use them glibly, with-
out realizing that they too are compounds of many elements.
Let us vivisect the word "happiness," for instance. Let us try
to discover what elements go into the making of complete hap-
piness.
Can a person be "happy" i£ he has everything but health?
Obviously not, since we refer to utter happiness, happiness
without reservations. So health must be put down as a neces-
sary element for "happiness."
Can a person be "happy" with nothing but health? Hardly.
One may feel joy, exuberance, freedom, but not happiness.
Remember that we are speaking of happiness in its purest
form. When you exclaim, "Boy, how happy I am!" upon re-
ceiving a long-desired gift, what you are experiencing is not
happiness. It is joy, fulfillment, surprise, but not happiness.
44 CHARACTER

Then we are not daring too much if we say that a man needs,
besides health, a job in which he can make a comfortable
living. We shall take it for granted that the man is not abused
on his job, for that would negate the possibility of his being
happy. The ingredients for happiness, so far, are health and
a satisfactory position.
But can a man be happy who possesses both of these and
no warm, human affection? There need be little argument on
this point. A man needs someone whom he can love and who
loves him in return. So let us add love to the other require-
ments.
Would you be happy if your position, although satisfac-
tory, held no chance for advancement? Would a good job,
health, and love suffice, if the future held for you no hope of
development, of improvement? We don't think so. Perhaps
your position will never change, but you can be happy in the
hope that it will. Let us therefore add hope to our list of in-
gredients.
Our recipe now reads: health, a satisfactory position, love,
and hope equal happiness. Further subdivisions might be
made, but the four main ingredients are enough to prove that
a word is the product of many elements. Of course, the mean-
ing of the word "happiness" will go through innumerable
metamorphoses, according to the place, climate, conditions,
under which it is used.
Protoplasm is one of the simplest of living substances, yet
it contains carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, sulphur, phos-
phorus, chlorine, potassium, sodium, calcium, magnesium,
iron. Simple protoplasm, in other words, contains the same
elements as complex man.
We referred to protoplasm as "simple," in comparing it
with man. Yet protoplasm is complex, compared with inan-
imate things. It occupies both a high and a low place on the
scale of complexity. Contradictory? No more so than anything
ENVIRONMENT 45

else in nature. The principle of contradiction and tension

makes motion possible, and life is motion, essentially.
What would have happened to the protoplasm at the be-
ginning of time as we know it, if it had not possessed motion?
Nothing. It could not have existed and life would have been
impossible. Through motion higher forms of life developed,
the specific form being determined by the place, climate, type
of food, abundance of food, light or lack of light.
Give a person all the elements required for life, but alter
one of them—heat, let us say, or light—and you will com-
pletely change his life. If you doubt this, you can experiment
on yourself. Let us suppose that you are happy, that you have
all the four necessary elements. Bandage your eyes for twenty-
four hours. Close out all light. You are still healthy, still em-
ployed, still loved and loving, still hopeful. Moreover, you
know that after twenty-four hours you will remove the band-
ages. You are not really blind, you are merely refraining from
sight at your own will. Yet that experiment will change your
entire attitude.
You will find the same thing to be true if you stop hearing
for one day, or temporarily deprive yourself of the use of one
limb. Eat any one food you like and nothing else, for months
—even for a couple of weeks. What do you think your reac-
tion will be? You'll loathe that food the rest of your life.
Would it make a great difference in your life if you were
forced to sleep in a bug-infested, foul room, on a dirty floor,
with only a few rags for covering or a mattress? Undoubtedly.
Even if you lived in foul surroundings for only a day, it would
multiply your appreciation of cleanliness and comfort.
It seems that human beings react to environment exactly as
the original one-celled creatures did when they changed their
shape, color, and species under the pressure of environment.
We are forcing this point strenuously because it is of the
utmost importance that we understand the principle of change
46 CHARACTER

in character. A character is in constant change. The smallest

disturbance of his well-ordered life will ruffle his placidity
and create a mental upheaval, just as a stone which slides
through the surface of a pond will create far-reaching rings
of motion.
If it is true that every man is influenced by his environ-
ment, health, and economic background, as we have tried
to prove, then it is evident that, since everything is in a process
of constant change (environment, health, and economic back-
ground, naturally, being part of everything), the man too will
change. As a matter of fact, he is the center of this constant
movement.
Don't forget a fundamental truism: everything is change-
able, only change is eternal.
Take, for instance, a prosperous businessman—a drygoods
merchant. He is happy. His business is on the upgrade. His
wife, his three children are also contented. It is a rare case,
in fact, an almost impossible case, but it will illustrate our
point. As far as he and his family are concerned, this man is
contented. Then a big industrialist somewhere starts a move-
ment to cut wages and destroy unions. It seems to our man
that this is a wise thing to do. The worker, he thinks, has
become too uppish lately. Why, if things continue at the rate
workers wish, they may very well take over industry and ruin
the country. Since our man has something to lose, he feels that
he and his family are in danger.
A slow but persistently growing uneasiness steals over him.
He is profoundly disturbed. He reads more about this grave
problem. He may or may not know that his fear is being cre-
ated by a few rich industrialists who wish to cut wages and
are spending fabulous sums to spread panic over the country.
Our man is caught in this web of propaganda. He wants to
do his share in saving his nation from destruction. He cuts
wages, unaware that by this act he has not only antagonized
his employees, but has helped a movement which will prove
ENVIRONMENT 47

a boomerang in the end, and may even destroy his own liveli-
hood. With the reduction of purchasing power, which he has
caused, his business may be one of the first to suffer.
Our man will suffer even if he knows what it is all about
and does not cut wages. He will be caught in the reaction to
his fellow employers' wage cutting. Changing conditions will
mold him, whether or not he wants to be molded, and they
will affect his family with him. He can't give tnem as much
money as he did, because the source of easy money has dried
up. This will precipitate some dissension among the members
of the family and may even cause an eventual split.
A war in Europe or China, a strike in San Francisco,
Hitler's attack on the democracies, will affect us as surely as
if we had been at the scene. Every human event comes home,
at long last, to roost. We find to our sorrow, perhaps, that
even seemingly unrelated things are very much related to
each other—and to us.
There is no escape—for our drygoods merchant or any-
one else.
Banks and governments are as subject to change as the rest
of us. We saw this in the 1929 depression. Countless millions
of dollars were lost. After the First World War, government
after government toppled, and new governments or new sys-
tems took their places. Your money, your investments, were
swept away overnight, and your security with them. You, as an
individual, are only as secure as the rest of the world is under
prevailing circumstances.
A character, then, is the sum total of his physical make-up
and the influences his environment exerts upon him. Look
at the flowers. It makes a great difference in their develop-
ment if they receive the morning sun, the midday sun, or the
afternoon sun.
OUT minds, no less than our bodies, respond to external
influences. Early memories are so deep-rooted that we are
often unconscious of them. We can make determined efforts
48 CHARACTER

to rid ourselves of past influences, to escape from our instincts,

but we remain in their grip. Unconscious recollections color
our judgment regardless of how fair we try to be.
Woodruff says, in Animal Biology:

It is impossible to consider protoplasm except in connection with

its surroundings, whatever they may be, variations in its environ-
ment and variations in its activities being reflected directly or
indirectly in its appearance.
Watch women walking in the rain under their colored
umbrellas, and you'll notice that their faces reflect the color
of the umbrellas they carry. Our own childhood recollections,
memories, experiences, become an indelible part of us and
will reflect upon and color our minds. We cannot see things
otherwise than this reflection permits us to see them. We may
argue against this coloration, we may put up a conscious fight
against it, we may even act against our natural inclinations,
but we still reflect all we represent.

life is change. The smallest disturbance alters the pat-

tern of the whole. The environment changes, and man with
it- If a young man meets a young lady under the right circum-
stances, he may be drawn to her by their common interest in
literature, or the arts, or sports. This common interest toward
a subject may deepen until they feel fondness and sympathy.
The sympathy grows, and before they realize it, it will be at-
tachment, which is deeper than sympathy or fondness. If noth-
ing disturbs this harmony, it will become infatuation. Infatu-
ation is not yet love, but it approaches love as it moves on to
the stage of devotion and then to rapture, or adoration which
is already love. Love is the last stage. It can be tested by sacri-
fice. Real love is the capacity to endure any hardship for the
beloved.
The emotions of two people might follow this course if
everything worked out just right; if nothing interferes with
THE DIALECTICAL APPROACH 49

their budding romance, they may marry and live happily ever
after. But suppose that when this same young couple reaches
the stage of attachment, a malignant gossiper informs the
young man that the lady in question had an affair before she
knew him. If the young man had a bad experience before, he
will shy away from the young woman. From attachment he
will change to coolness, from coolness to malice, from malice
to antipathy. If the girl is defiant and not sorry for the past,
antipathy might ripen into bitterness, and bitterness to detes-
tation. On the other hand, if the mother of the same young
man had an experience like this young lady's, and became a
better wife and mother in consequence, then the young man's
attachment might grow into love much more quickly than
otherwise.
This simple love affair is subject to any number of varia-
tions. Too much or too little money will influence its course.
A steady or insecure job will do the same. Health or sickness
may speed up or slow down love's consummation. The finan-
cial and social status of either family may affect the courtship
for better or worse. Heredity may upset the applecart.
Every human being is in a state of constant fluctuation and
change. Nothing is static in nature, least of all man.
As we pointed out before, a character is the sum total of
his physical make-up and the influences his environment ex-
erts upon him at that particular moment.

5. The Dialectical Approach

What is dialectics? The word comes to us from the old
Greeks who used it to mean a conversation or dialogue. Now,
the citizens of Athens regarded conversation as a supreme
art—the art of discovering truth—and contested against one
another to find the best conversationalist, or dialectician.
Above all other Greeks, Socrates stands out as most perfect.
5O CHARACTER

We may read some of his conversations in Plato's Dialogues,

which yield us, on close study, the secret of his art. Socrates
discovers truth by this process: he states a proposition, finds
a contradiction to it, and, correcting it in the light of this con-
tradiction, finds a new contradiction. This continues indefi-
nitely.
Let us look further into this method. Movement of the con-
versation is secured by three steps. First, statement of the
proposition, called thesis. Then the discovery of a contradic-
tion to this proposition, called antithesis, being the opposite
of the original proposition. Now, resolution of this contradic-
tion necessitates correction of the original proposition, and
formulation of a third proposition, the synthesis, being the
combination of the original proposition and the contradic-
tion to it.
These three steps—thesis, antithesis, and synthesis—are the
law of all movement. Everything that moves constantly ne-
gates itself. All things change toward their opposites through
movement. The present becomes the past, the future becomes
the present. There is nothing which does not move.
Constant change is the very essence of all existence. Every-
thing in time passes into its opposite. Everything within itself
contains its own opposite. Change is a force which impels it
to move, and this very movement becomes something differ-
ent from what it was. The past becomes the present and both
determine the future. New life arises from the old, and this
new life is the combination of the old with the contradiction
which has destroyed it. This contradiction that causes the
change goes on forever.
A human being is a maze of seeming contradictions. Plan-
ning one thing, he at once does another; loving, he believes
he hates. Man oppressed, humiliated, beaten, still professes
sympathy and understanding for those who have beaten, hu-
miliated, and oppressed him.
How can we explain these contradictions?
THE DIALECTICAL APPROACH 51

Why does the man you befriend turn against you? Why
does son turn against father, daughter against mother?
A boy runs away from home because his mother insists that
he sweep their dingy, two-room apartment. He hates sweep-
ing. But he is quite content with a job as assistant janitor in
a big house—his main function being to sweep the halls and
street. Why?
A twelve-year-old girl marries a fifty-year-old man—and is
sincerely happy. A thief becomes a worthy citizen, a wealthy
gentleman becomes a thief. The daughter of a respectable
and religious family crashes into the underworld and prosti-
tution. Why?
On the surface, these examples are part of a riddle, part
of the so-called "mystery of life." But they can be explained,
dialectically. It is a Herculean task, but not an impossible
one if we remember that without contradiction there would
be no motion and no life. Without contradiction there would
be no universe. Stars, moon, earth would not exist—nor would
we. Hegel said: •
It is only because a thing contains a contradiction within itself
that it moves and acquires impulse and activity. That is the process
of all motion and all development.
Adoratsky, in his Dialectics, writes:
The general laws of dialectics are universal: they are to be found
in the movement and development of the immeasurable, vast,
luminous nebulae from which in the spaces of the universe the
stellar systems are formed . . . in the internal structure of mole-
cules and atoms and in the movement of electrons and protons.
Zeno, in the fifth century B.C., was father of dialectics. Ado-
ratsky quotes Zeno's demonstrations:
An arrow, in the course of its flight, is bound to be at some definite
point of its path and occupy some definite place. If that be so, then
• The Science of Logic.
52 CHARACTER

at each given moment it is at a definite point in a state of rest, that

is, motionless; hence, it is not moving at all. We therefore see that
motion cannot be expressed without resorting to contradictory
statements. The arrow is at a given place, yet at the same time is
not in that place. It is only by expressing both these contradictory
affirmations coincidentally that we can depict motion.
Let us stop here and freeze a human being into immobility.
Let us analyze thoroughly the girl who left a religious home
to become a prostitute. It is not enough to say that certain
forces caused her degeneration. There were forces, of course,
but what were they? Did some supernatural guidance move
her? Did she honestly find prostitution alluring? Hardly. She
had read about it, heard from her parents, from the pastor of
her church, that prostitution is one of the worst evils in soci-
ety, full of uncertainty, disease, horror. She knew that a pros-
titute is hunted by the law, fleeced by pimps, taken advantage
of by clients and masters alike, and finally left to die a lonely,
miserable death.
It is almost impossible that a normal, well-bred girl would
wish to become a prostitute. Yet this one did become a pros-
titute—and others have.
To understand the dialectical reasons for this girl's action
we must know her thoroughly. Only then can we perceive the
contradictions within and without her, and through these
contradictions, the movement which is life.
Let us call this girl Irene; here is the bone structure of
Irene's character.
PHYSIOLOGY
r
Sex: Female.
Age: Nineteen.
Height: Five feet, two inches.
Weight: no pounds.
Color of hair: Dark brown.
Color of eyes: Brown.
THE DIALECTICAL APPROACH 53

Skin: Fair.
Posture: Straight.
Appearance: Attractive.
Neat: Yes, very.
Health: She had an appendix operation when she was fifteen.
She is susceptible to colds, and the whole family is mor-
bidly afraid that she will become tubercular. She is seem-
ingly unconcerned, but actually she is convinced that
she will die young, and wishes to enjoy life while she can.
Birthmarks: None.
Abnormalities: None, if we overlook her hypersensitivity.
Heredity: A weak constitution, from her mother.

SOCIOLOGY

Class: Middle class. Her family lives in comfort. Father has

a general store, but of late competition has been mak-
ing his life miserable. He fears that he will be frozen
out by younger people. This fear is eventually proved
valid, but he would never burden his family with it.
Occupation: None. Irene is supposed to help around the
house, but she prefers to read and let the burden fall on
her seven teen-year-old sister, Sylvia.
Education: High school. She wanted to drop out in the sec-
ond year, but her parents' insistence and outright threats
made her finish the course somehow. She never liked
school or study. She had no comprehension of mathe-
matics or geography, but she liked history. The bravery,
love affairs, betrayals, fascinated her. She read history pro-
fusely, but not as nonfiction. Dates and names were un-
important, and only the glamour mattered. Her memory
was not retentive, and her sloppy working habits led to
constant conflict with her teachers. Her physical neat-
ness was not reflected in her untidy, misspelled composi-
tions. Graduation was the happiest day of her life.
Home life: Both her parents are alive. Her mother is about
54 CHARACTER

forty-eight, her father, fifty-two. They married late. Her

mother's life was fairly turbulent. She had a love affair
lasting two and a half years, at the end of which time the
man ran away with another woman. She tried to kill her-
self. Her brother caught her in the act of taking gas.
She had a nervous breakdown and was sent to an aunt
to recuperate. She stayed there a year, regained her health,
and met the man who is now her husband. They became
engaged, although she did not love him. Her contempt
for men made her indifferent to the identity of the man
she married. He, on the other hand, was a plain-looking
man, proud that such a pretty girl should consent to
marry him. She never told him of her affair with the
other man, but did not worry about his finding out. He
never did, since he cared nothing about her past. He
loved her although she made a very poor wife at first.
After Irene's birth, she changed completely. She took
interest in her household, her child, and even in her
husband. But now her gall bladder, which has troubled
her for years, will never be cured without an operation.
She has become nervous and irritable. She no longer
reads as she once did—not even a newspaper. She had
only an elementary-school education and dreamed that
Irene would go to college. But her daughter's abhorrence
of learning frustrated this ambition.
Her bringing up was sadly neglected, and she attrib-
utes her early misstep to her parents' negligence. As a
result, she exercises close supervision over Irene's every
step. This leads to constant squabbling between mother
and daughter. Irene hates supervision, but her mother
insists it is not only her prerogative but her sacred duty.
Irene's father is of Scotch descent. He is frugal, but
will go to any length to satisfy his family's needs. Irene is
his pet. He worries about her health and often takes her
THE DIALECTICAL APPROACH 55

part in her squabbles with her mother. He knows that

his wife means well, however, and agrees that Irene
should be looked after. He took over his father's store
when his parents died, and became sole owner. He, too,
went only to elementary school. He reads the local paper,
the Courier. His parents were Republican, so he too is a
Republican., If questioned, he could not give any reason
for his beliefs. He believes firmly in God and country.
He is a simple man with simple tastes. He makes a mod-
est, annual contribution to the church and is highly re-
spected in the community.
I.Q.: Irene is low normal.
Religion; Presbyterian. Irene is agnostic, when she thinks of
religion at all. She's too preoccupied with herself.
Community: She belongs to a singing society and the "Moon-
light Sonata Social Club," where young people congre-
gate to dance and play games. Sometimes the games de-
generate into outright petting parties. Irene is admired
for her grace. She is a good dancer—nothing more. The
praises she absorbs here give rise to a desire to go to New
York and be a dancer. Of course, when Irene mentions
this to her mother, an hysterical scene occurs. Mother's
desire to squelch Irene's ambition arises from her fears
of what a free life in the city might do to Irene's morals
and, to a lesser extent, to Irene's delicate health. The girl
never dares mention the matter again.
Irene is not particularly popular with girls, due to a
certain delight she takes in malicious gossip.
Political affiliations: None. Irene never could figure out the
difference between the Republican and Democratic par-
ties and was not aware that there were any others.
Amusements: Motion pictures, dancing. She is mad about
dancing. She smokes secretly.
Reading: Pulp magazines: love stories, romance, screen news.
56 CHARACTER

PSYCHOLOGY

Sex life: She had an affair with Jimmy, a club member. Her
fears that some dire fate would overtake her proved
groundless. Now she does not go with him, because he
flatly refused to marry her when she thought herself in
trouble. She was not very much disappointed at his re-
fusal, since her favorite plan is to go to New York and be
a chorus girl. Dancing before an admiring public is the
apex of her dreams.
Morality: "There is nothing wrong with any sexual relation-
ship if you can take care of yourself."
Ambition: Dancing in New York. For over a year she has been
putting aside her pin money. If everything else fails, she
will run away. She's glad Jimmy refused to marry her.
She can't picture herself as a domesticated wife whose
main function is childbearing. She feels that Plainsville
would be a terrible place to die in and is unspeakable for
living purposes. She was born in the town and knows
every stone in it. She feels that even if she fails as a dancer,
just being out of Plainsville will make her happy.
Frustration: She has had no dancing lessons. There is no studio
in town, and to have sent her to another town would have
entailed more expense than her father could meet. She
has worn a tragic halo about her head and let the family
know that she is sacrificing her life for their good.
Temperament: Quick-tempered. The slightest provocation
will send her into a rage. She is vengeful and boasting.
But when her mother was ill, she astounded the town by
her devotion. She insisted on being with her until she had
completely recovered. When Irene was fourteen, her ca-
nary died, and she was inconsolable for weeks.
Attitude: Militant.
Complexes: Superiority complex.
Superstitions: Number thirteen. If something unpleasant hap-
THE DIALECTICAL APPROACH 57

pens on a Friday, something unpleasant will happen dur-

ing the week.
Imagination: Good.
The thesis in this case will be the desire of the parents to
marry off Irene as advantageously as possible.
The antithesis will be Irene's intention of not marrying at
all, but of being a dancer at any cost.
The synthesis will be the resolution: Irene's running away-
and eventually finding herself on the streets.
SYNOPSIS
Irene, instead of going to the singing society, has been go-
ing out with a young man. A girl, meeting Irene's mother on
the street, asks, casually, why Irene has dropped out of the
group. The mother can barely hide her shock, but explains
that Irene has not been well lately. At home, there is a terrible
interview. Mother suspects that Irene is no longer a virgin and
wishes to marry her off as quickly as possible to a clerk in her
father's store. Irene is aware of her mother's determination.
She decides to run away and accomplish her ambition. She
finds no employment in the theater and, having no profession
with which to earn a living, she soon succumbs to pressing
necessity and turns to prostitution.
There are thousands of girls who run away from thousands
of homes. Naturally, they do not all become prostitutes—be-
cause their physical, mental, and sociological make-ups differ
in a thousand ways from each other and from Irene. Our
synopsis is only one version of how a girl from a respectable
home becomes a prostitute.

Suppose a hunchback had been born into the same family.

That would never create the type of conflict Irene does. A
deformed person would do something else in a pinch. Our
character must have a good figure to think of being a dancer.
Irene is intolerant; a humble or appreciative person would be
58 CHARACTER

glad to get what Irene got from life. She would never think
of running away; ergo, Irene had to be intolerant. Irene is
shallow. Another girl might be intelligent, studious, under-
standing, sympathetic—she would overlook her mother's ob-
vious shortcomings, would help her, correct her tactfully. She
would not have to run away.
Irene is vain. She receives too much praise, she thinks she
can sing and dance much better than she actually can. She's
not afraid to run away because she believes New York is wait-
ing for her with open arms. Irene must be vain.
Irene is fully developed. She was admired, courted. She had
sexual experience without a dreadful aftermath. Therefore,
it is not unnatural for her to turn to prostitution when no
other course lies open. It was an easier way out of her eco-
nomic difficulties than suicide. Why didn't she go home? Her
boasting in the past, her intolerance toward those at home,
exclude this solution. That is why she must be intolerant and
why she must boast.
But why should she turn to prostitution? Because you are
forced by your premise to find a girl who will turn to prostitu-
tion in lack of other means of support. Irene is such a girl.
Of course, Irene might get a job as a servant or a salesgirl,
hold it for a while, and then lose it because of her inherent
unfitness for such work. It is even up to you, as the playwright,
to make her try every possible means of avoiding prostitution.
But she must fail: not because the dramatist wants her to, but
because her make-up is such that she cannot make good re-
gardless of the opportunities presented. If she does succeed
in avoiding her fate, the dramatist must find another girl
whose qualifications are such that she fulfills the original
premise. Remember that the girl has her own standards, and
you cannot judge her with yours. If she had your searching
mind she would never have found herself in such a predica-
ment. But she is vain, superficial, boastful. She's ashamed to
admit defeat. She comes from a small town, where everyone
CHARACTER GROWTH 59

would know what had happened. She would not be able to

face her friends, to tolerate their hidden sarcasm.
It is your task, as the playwright, to exhaust every other
possibility and then show, logically, how she finds her way
into the type of life she would most wish to avoid. It is up to
you to prove that nothing else remains for her. //, for any rea-
son, we feel that prostitution wasn't the only way out for Irene,
you have failed as a craftsman and as a dramatist.
Because all conflict grew from the character's physical and
environmental background this approach is dialectical. The
inherent contradiction made her do what she did.
Of course, a playwright can start with a plot or an idea. But
after that he must formulate a premise which will crystallize
his plot or idea. In this way the plot or idea will not be sepa-
rate from the play as a whole, but will be an integral part of it.
Frank S. Nugent, formerly motion-picture critic for The
New York Times, once wrote in great astonishment the follow-
ing comment about a picture called Made for Each Other:
"For that, in fact, is the story of Made for Each Other, and it
happens to be the story, in one form or another, of every young
couple that ever was or will be. Mr. Swerling hasn't said a new
thing, taken a stand pro or con, or shed a bit of light on the
murky course of human destiny. He simply has found a pleas-
ant young couple, or has let them find each other, and has
permitted nature to have its fling. It is an unusual procedure
for a script writer. Habitually they toss nature aside and think
up the darnedest things for their people to do. It's amazing
how interesting normal human behavior can be."
Yes, it is amazing. If only playwrights and producers would
permit characters to work out their own destinies!

4. Character Growth
The only thing that one really knows about human nature is that
. it changes. Change is the one quality we can predicate of it. The
60 CHARACTER

systems that fail are those that rely on the permanency of human
nature, and not its growth and development.
—OSCAR WILDE, Soul of Man under Socialism

Regardless of the medium in which you are working, you

must know your characters thoroughly. And you must know
them not only as they are today, but as they will be tomorrow
or years from now.
Everything in nature changes—human beings along with
the rest. A man who was brave ten years ago may be a coward
now, for any number of reasons: age, physical deterioration,
changed financial status, to name a few.
You may think you know someone who never has changed,
and never will. But no such person has ever existed. A man
may keep his religious and political views apparently intact
through the years, but close scrutiny will show that his con-
victions have either deepened or become superficial. They
have gone through many stages, many conflicts, and will con-
tinue to go through them as long as the man lives. So he does
change, after all.
Even stone changes, although its disintegration is imper-
ceptible; the earth goes through a slow but persistent trans-
formation; the sun, too, the solar system, the universe. Na-
tions are born, pass through adolescence, achieve manhood,
grow old, and then die, either violently or by gradual disso-
lution.
Why should man, then, be the only thing in nature which
never changes? Preposterous!
There is only one realm in which characters defy natural
laws and remain the same—the realm of bad writing. And it
is the fixed nature of the characters which makes the writing
bad. If a character in a short story, novel, or play occupies the
same position at the end as the one he did at the beginning,
that story, novel, or play is bad.
A character stands revealed through conflict; conflict be-
gins with a decision; a decision is made because of the prem-
CHARACTER GROWTH 6l

ise of your play. The character's decision necessarily sets in

motion another decision, from his adversary. And it is these
decisions, one resulting from the other, which propel the play
to its ultimate destination: the proving of the premise.
No man ever lived who could remain the same through a
series of conflicts which affected his way of living. Of neces-
sity he must change, and alter his attitude toward life.
Even a corpse is in a state of change: disintegration. And
while a man is arguing with you, attempting to prove his
changelessness, he is changing: growing old.
So we can safely say that any character, in any type of litera-
ture, which does not undergo a basic change is a badly drawn
character. We can go further and say that if a character cannot
change, any situation in which he is placed will be an unreal
situation.
Nora, from A Doll's House, who starts as Helmer's "scat-
terbrain" and "singing bird," becomes a grown-up woman at
the end of the play. She begins as a child, but the terrible
awakening catapults her into maturity. First she is bewil-
dered, then shocked, then about to do away with herself, and
finally she revolts.
Archer says:
In all modern drama, there is perhaps no character who "devel-
ops," in the ordinary sense of the word, so startlingly as Ibsen's
Nora.

Look at any truly great play, and you will see the same
point illustrated. Moliere's Tartuffe, Shakespeare's Merchant
of Venice, and Hamlet, Euripides' Medea, all build upon the
constant change and development of character under the im-
pact of conflict.
Othello starts with love, ends with jealousy, murder, and
suicide.
The Bear starts with animosity, ends with love.
Hedda Gabler starts with egotism, ends with suicide.
62 CHARACTER

Macbeth starts with ambition, ends with murder.

The Cherry Orchard starts with irresponsibility, ends with
loss of property.
Excursion starts with the longing to fulfill a dream, ends
with awakening to reality.
Hamlet starts with suspicion, ends with murder.
Death of a Salesman starts with illusions, ends in painful
knowledge.
Dead End starts with poverty, ends with crime.
The Silver Cord starts with domination, ends in dissolution.
Craigs Wife starts with overscrupulousness, ends with lone-
liness.
Waiting for Lefty starts with uncertainty, ends with con-
viction.
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof starts with frustration, ends with
hope.
The Iceman Cometh starts with hopefulness, ends in de-
spair.
Career starts with hopelessness, ends in success and triumph.
Raisin in the Sun starts with despair, ends with understand-
ing and new values.

All these characters move relentlessly from one state of

mind toward another; they are forced to change, grow, de-
velop, because the dramatists had a clear-cut premise which it
was their function to prove.
When a person makes one mistake, he always follows up
with another. Usually the second mistake grows out of the first
and the third from the second. Orgon, in Tartuffe, made the
grievous mistake of taking Tartuffe into his home, believing
in his saintliness. The second mistake was entrusting Tartuffe
with a small box containing papers "which, if they were
brought to light might, for aught I know, cost my friend all
his estate, and—if he were caught—his head."
CHARACTER GROWTH 63

Orgon believed in Tartuffe so far, but now, by putting this

box in his care, Orgon jeopardizes a human life. Orgon's
growth from trust to admiration is obvious, deepening with
every line.
TARTUFFE: It is well hidden. [The box] You may feel easy con-
cerning it. As / do.
ORCON: My best friend! What you have done is beyond all thanks.
It has knit us even closer together than before.
TARTUFFE: Nothing could do that.
ORGON: One thing could, as I have just seen, if it could but be ac-
complished.
TARTUFFE: A dark saying, brother. Expound it, I pray you.
ORGON: YOU said a while ago that my daughter needed a husband
who could keep her footsteps from straying.
TARTUFFE: I did. And I cannot think that a worldling such as
M. Valere—
ORCON: Nor I. And this has lately been borne in upon me—she
could have no safer, tenderer guide through the pitfalls of this
life than you, beloved friend.
TARTUFFE: [Who is genuinely taken back for the moment] Than
/, brother? Oh, no. Not
ORGON: What? Would you refuse to be my son-in-law?
TARTUFFE: It is an honor to which I have never dreamed of aspir-
ing. And—and—I have some cause to think that I have found
no favor in the eyes of Mile Mariane.
ORGON: That matters little if she has found favor in yours.
TARTUFFE: Eyes that are fixed on Heaven, brother, have no regard
for the beauty that perisheth.
ORGON: True, brother, true—but would you hold that a reason for
refusing a bride who is not without comeliness?
TARTUFFE: [Who is uncertain how a marriage with Mariane would
assist his designs on Elmire] I would not say so. Many saintly
men have wedded comely maidens and sinned not. But—to be
plain with you—I fear that a marriage with your daughter might
not be altogether pleasing to Madame Orgon.
ORGON: What if it be not? She is only her stepmother, and her con-
64 CHARACTER
sent is not needed. I might add that Mariane will bring her hus-
band an ample dowry, but that I know will not weigh with you.
TARTUFFE: HOW should it?
ORGON: But what, I hope, will weigh with you is that by declining
her hand you would disappoint me grievously.
TARTUFFE: If I thought that, brother—
ORGON: More than that, I should feel that you did not think such
an alliance worthy of you.
TARTUFFE: It is I who am unworthy. [He decides to take the risk]
But, rather than you should so misjudge me, I will—yes, I will
overcome my scruples.
ORGON: Then you consent to be my son-in-law?
TARTUFFE: Since you desire it, who am I that I should say you nay?
ORGON: YOU have made me a happy man again. [He rings handbell]
I will send for my daughter and tell her what I have arranged
for her.
TARTUFFE: [Going toward his door right] Meanwhile I will crave
your permission to retire. [At door] If I may offer my counsel, it
will be better, in laying this matter before her, to dwell less on
any poor merits of my own than on your wishes as a father. [He
goes in]
ORGON: [TO himself] What humilityl

Orgon's third mistake is in trying to force his daughter to

marry this scoundrel. His fourth mistake is in deeding his
whole estate to Tartuffe to manage. He sincerely believes that
Tartuffe will save his wealth from his family, who, he thinks,
wants to squander it. This is his most grievous mistake. He
has sealed his own doom. But the ridiculousness of this deed
is only a natural outgrowth of his first mistake. Yes, Orgon
grows perceptibly from blind belief to disillusionment. The
author achieved this with step-by-step development in his
character.
When you plant a seed, it seems for a while to lie dormant.
Actually, moisture attacks it immediately, softening the shell
of the seed so that the chemical inherent in the seed, and
those which it absorbs from the soil, may cause it to sprout.
CHARACTER GROWTH 65

The soil above the seed is hard to push through, but this
very handicap, this resistance to the soil, forces the young
sprout to gather strength for the battle. Where shall it get
this additional strength? Instead of fighting ineffectively
against the topsoil, the seed sends out delicate roots to gather
more nourishment. Thus the sprout at last penetrates the
hard soil and wins through to the sun.
According to science, a single thistle needs ten thousand
inches of root to support a thirty- or forty-inch stem. You can
guess how many thousands of facts a dramatist must unearth
to support a single character.
By way of parable, let a man represent the soil; in his mind
we shall plant a seed of coming conflict: ambition, perhaps.
The seed grows in him, though he may wish to squelch it. But
forces within and without the man exert greater and greater
pressure, until this seed of conflict is strong enough to burst
through his stubborn head. He has made a decision, and now
he will act upon it.
The contradictions within a man and the contradictions
around him create a decision and a conflict. These in turn
force him into a new decision and a new conflict.
Many kinds of pressures are required before a human being
can make a single decision, but the three main groups are
the physiological, the sociological, and the psychological.
From these three forces you can make innumerable combina-
tions.
If you plant an acorn, you reasonably expect an oak sap-
ling, and eventually an oak tree. Human character is the same.
A certain type of character will develop on his own line to
fruition. Only in bad writing does a man change without re-
gard to his characteristics. When we plant an acorn we would
be justified in expecting an oak tree and shocked (at the very
least) if it turned out to be an apple tree.
Every character a dramatist presents must have within it
the seeds of its future development. There must be the seed,
66 CHARACTER

or possibility, of crime in the boy who is going to turn crim-

inal at the end of the play.
Although Nora, in A Doll's House, is loving, submissive,
and obedient, there is in her the spirit of independence, re-
bellion, and stubbornness—a sign of possible growth.
Let us examine her character. We know that at the end of
the play she is not only going to leave her husband, but her
children as well. In 1879 that was an almost unheard-of phe-
nomenon. She had little, if any, precedent to go by. She must
have had within her that something, at the beginning of the
play, which develops into the independent spirit she has at
the end. Let us see what this something was.
When the play opens, Nora enters, humming a tune. A
porter follows with a Christmas tree and a basket.
PORTER: Sixpence.
NORA: There is a shilling. No, keep the change.

She has been trying to save every penny to pay off her secret
debt—yet still she is generous. Meanwhile she is eating maca-
roons, which she is not supposed to have. They are not good
for her, and she has promised Helmer that she will not eat
sweets. So the first sentence she says shows us that she is not
close with money, and the first thing she does shows her break-
ing a promise. She is childlike.
Helmer enters:
HELMER: Has my little spendthrift been wasting money again?
NORA: Yes, but Torvald, we may be a wee bit more reckless now,
mayn't we?

(Helmer cautions her. It will be a whole quarter before he

receives his salary. Nora cries out like an impatient child:
"Pooh! We can borrow till then!")
HELMER: Nora! [He is appalled at her featherheadedness. He re-
sents this "borrow."] Suppose, now, that I borrowed fifty pounds

J
CHARACTER GROWTH 67

today, and you spent it all in the Christmas week, and then on
New Year's Eve a slate fell on my head and killed me, and . . .

(Just like Helmer. He would not be at peace, even in the

grave, with one unpaid debt on his conscience. He is certainly
a stickler for propriety. Can you imagine his reaction if he
were to discover that Nora had forged a name?)

NORA: If that were to happen, I don't suppose I should care

whether I owed money or not. [She has been kept in perpetual
ignorance of money matters, and her reaction is imperious.
Helmer is tolerant, but not enough so to forgo a lecture.]
HELMER: . . . There can be no freedom or beauty about a home
life that depends on borrowing and debt. [At this Nora is very
discouraged. It seems that Helmer will never understand her.]

The two characters have been sharply drawn. They are fac-
ing each other—clashing already. No blood has been drawn
yet, but it inevitably will come.
(Loving her as he does, Helmer now shifts the responsibility
to her father.)

HELMER: You're an odd little soul. Very like your father. You al-
ways find some new way of wheedling money out of me, and, as
soon as you have got it, it seems to melt in your hands. . . •
Still, one must take you as you are. It is in the blood; for indeed
it is true that you can inherit these things, Nora.

(With a master stroke Ibsen has sketched in Nora's back-

ground. He knows her ancestry better than she does. But she
loves her father, and is not slow to answer: "Oh, I wish I had
inherited many of Papa's qualities."
Right after this she lies shamelessly about having eaten the
macaroons, like a child who feels that the prohibitions set
down by her elders are necessarily senseless. There is no great
harm in this lying, but it shows what material Nora is made
of.)
68 CHARACTER

NORA: I should not think of going against your wishes.

HELMER: NO, I am sure of that; besides, you gave me your word.

(Life and Helmer's business have schooled him to think

that a given word is sacred. Here again, an insignificant thing
shows Helmer's lack of imagination, his complete inability to
realize that Nora is anything but what she seems to be on the
surface. He is unaware of what goes on behind his back at
home. Every penny that Nora wheedles out of him goes to the
money-lender, to pay off the debt she has incurred.
Nora is living a double life at the beginning of the play.
The forgery was committed long before the play opened, and
Nora has been hugging her secret to herself, calm in the
knowledge that her deed was a heroic sacrifice to save Helmer's
life.)

NORA: [Talking to her schooltime friend, Mrs. Linde] But it was

absolutely necessary that he should not know I My goodness,
. can't you understand that? It was necessary he should have no
idea what a dangerous condition he was in. It was to me that
the doctors came and said his life was in danger and that the
only thing to save him was to live in the South. . . . I even
hinted that he might raise a loan. That nearly made him angry,
Christine. He said I was thoughtless and that it was his duty as
my husband not to indulge me in my whims. . . . Very well, I
thought, you must be saved—and that was how I came to devise a
way out of the difficulty.
(Ibsen takes his time about starting the main conflict. Very
precious time is consumed by the scene in which Nora con-
fesses to Mrs. Linde what she did for Helmer. There is some-
thing too coincidental about Mrs. Linde's visit at this oppor-
tune moment, and also Krogstad's visit. But we are not discuss-
ing Ibsen's deficiencies here. We are tracing the completeness
of Nora's development. Let us see what else we can learn about
her.)
MRS. LINDE: DO you mean never to tell him about it? [the forgery]
CHARACTER GROWTH 69

NORA: [Meditatively, and with a half-smile] Yes, someday, perhaps,

after many years, when I am no longer as nice-looking as I am
now. [This throws an interesting light on Nora's motive. She
expects gratitude for her deed.] Don't laugh at mel I mean, of
course, when Torvald is no longer as devoted to me as he is now,
when my dancing and dressing up and reciting have palled on
him, then it may be a good thing to have something in reserve.
(Now we can surmise the tremendous shock Nora is in for
when Helmer denounces her as a bad wife and mother, in-
stead of praising her. This, then, will be the turning point
in her life. Her childhood will die a miserable death, and with
a shock she will see, for the first time, the hostile world about
her. She has done everything in her power to make Helmer
live and be happy, and when she needs him most he will turn
against her. Nora has all the necessary ingredients for growth
in one direction. Helmer, too, acts in accordance with the
character Ibsen has given him. Listen to his storm of impo-
tent rage after learning of the forgery.)
HELMER: What a horrible awakening! All these eight years—she
who was my joy and pride—a hypocrite, a liar—worse—worse
—a criminal 1 The unutterable ugliness of it all I For shame 1 For
shame! ["Nora is silent and looks at him steadily. He stops in
front of her." These are Ibsen's stage directions. Nora is looking
at Helmer with horror, seeing a strange man, a man who forgets
her motive and thinks only of himself.] I ought to have suspected
that something of the sort would happen. I ought to have fore-
seen it, all your father's want of principle—be silent!
(Apparently Nora's sociological background helped Ibsen
draw her mind. Her physiological make-up helped, too—she
is aware of her beauty, mentions it several times. She knows
she has many admirers, but they mean nothing to her until
she makes up her mind to leave.)
HELMER: All your father's want of principle has come out in you.
No religion, no sense of duty.
70 CHARACTER

All these things are discernible in Nora's character at the

beginning of the play. She has brought upon herself every-
thing that happened. These things were in her character and
they necessarily directed her actions. Nora's growth is positive.
We can watch her irresponsibility change to anxiety, her anxi-
ety to fear, her fear to desperation. The climax leaves her at
first numb, then she slowly understands her position. She
makes her final, irrevocable decision, a decision as logical as
the blooming of a flower, a decision which is the result of
steady, persistent evolution. Growth is evolution; climax is
revolution.

Let us trace the seed of possible growth in another char-

acter—Romeo. We want to know if he possesses the charac-
teristics which will lead him to the inevitable end.
Romeo, in love with Rosalind, is walking around in a daze,
when on the street he meets one of his relatives, Benvolio,
who accosts him.
BENVOLIO: Good morning, cousin.
ROMEO: Is the day so young?
BENVOLIO: But now struck nine.
ROMEO: Ay me! Sad hours seem long.
Was that my father that went hence so fast?
BENVOLIO: It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?
ROMEO: Not having that which, having, makes them short.
BENVOLIO: In love?
ROMEO: Out.
BENVOLIO: Of love?
ROMEO: Out of her favor, where I am in love.

Romeo bitterly complains that his ladylove has "not been

hit with Cupid's arrow."
She is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair,
To merit bliss by making me despair:
She hath forsworn to love; and in that vow
Do I live dead, that live to tell it now.
CHARACTER GROWTH 71

Benvolio advises him to "examine other beauties," but

Romeo cannot be consoled.
He that is stricken blind cannot forget
The previous treasure of his eyesight lost:

Farewell: thou canst not teach me to forget.

• But later, through a queer coincidence, he learns that his

beloved Rosalind will be in the house of his family's deadly
enemy, the Capulets, where they are entertaining guests. He
decides to go, defying death, to steal, if only a glance, at his
love. And there, among the guests, he beholds a lady so en-
chanting that he has no eyes for Rosalind and breathlessly
asks a servingman:
What lady's that, which doth enrich the hand of yonder knight?
SERVANT: I know not, sir.
ROMEO: O, she doth teach the torches to burn brightl
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dearl
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,
As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
The measure dove, I'll watch her place of stand,
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sightl
For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

And with this decision his die is cast.

Romeo is haughty, impetuous. Finding that his true love
is the daughter of the Capulets, he does not hesitate to storm
this citadel of hate where murderous intent is constant against
him and his family. He is impatient, brooks no contradiction.
His love for the fair Juliet has made him still more high
strung. For his love, he is willing even to humble himself. No
price is too great for his beloved Juliet.
72 CHARACTER

If we consider his death-defying exploit—jeopardizing his

life just to have a glance at Rosalind—then we may surmise
what he is capable of doing for Juliet, the true love of his life.
No other type of man could have faced so much danger
without flinching. The possible growth was inherent in his
character from the very beginning of the play.
It is interesting to note that a certain Mr. Maginn in his
Shakespeare Papers states that Romeo's hard luck through-
out his life was attributable to the fact that he was "unlucky,"
that had any other passion or pursuit occupied Romeo, he
would have been as unlucky as in his love.
Mr. Maginn forgets that Romeo, like everyone else, acts
as his character dictates. Yes, Romeo's downfall is inherent;
it does not occur because he is "unlucky." His impetuous tem-
perament, which he cannot control, drives him to do what
another person could easily have avoided.
His temperament, his background—in short, his character
was the seed which ensured growth and proved the author's
premise.
The important thing we wish the reader to remember is
that Romeo was fashioned from that kind of stuff which made
him what he was (impulsive, and so on) and forced him to do
what he did later (murder and suicide). This characteristic
was apparent in the first line uttered.
Another fine example of growth is found in Mourning Be-
comes Electra, by Eugene O'Neill. Lavinia, the daughter of
a brigadier general, Ezra Mannon, and his wife Christine,
says almost at the very beginning of the play, when a young
man who loves her alludes to love:
LAVINIA: [Stiffening, brusquely] I don't know anything about love.
I don't want to know anything. [Intensely] I hate lovel
Lavinia is the pivotal character, and lives up to this state-
ment throughout the play. Her mother's illicit love affair
r

CHARACTER GROWTH 73

made her what she became later—relentless, vengeful to

death.
We have no intention of stopping anyone from writing a
pageant or imitating the indefatigable Saroyan, who writes
limping cadences to the beauty of life. Any of these things can
be moving, even beautiful to behold. We wouldn't eliminate
Gertrude Stein, either, from the groaning arena of literature
for the simple reason that we enormously enjoy her vagaries
and her style (although, we confess, frequently we don't know
what she is talking about). From decay springs a new, vibrant
life. Somehow these formless things belong to life. Without
disharmony there could never be harmony. But some play-
wrights obviously write about character and want to build
it into a well-constructed edifice, and when it turns out to
be a pageant or a pseudo-Saroyan, they insist that we treat
their work as a play. We can't do that, no matter how hard
we try, just as we can't compare the mental capacity of a child
to an Einstein.
Robert E. Sherwood's Idiot's Delight is such a work. Al-
though it won the Pulitzer Prize, it is far from being a well-
constructed play.
Harry Van and Irene are supposed to be the leading char-
acters in this play, but we can't discern any possible growth
in them. Irene is a liar and Harry is a good-natured, happy-
go-lucky fellow. Only at the end we see some growth, but then
the play is over.
Lavinia, Hamlet, Nora, and Romeo, even without a mag-
nificent production, are still characters; living, pulsating, dy-
namic personalities. They know what they want and fight for
it. But poor Harry and Irene just amble around without a
visible goal to pursue.

QUESTION: What do you mean, explicitly, when you say

"growth"?

^
74 CHARACTER

ANSWER: For example, King Lear is ready to distribute his

kingdom among his daughters. This is a blunder, and the
play must prove to the audience that it is folly. It does this
through showing the effect of Lear's action on himself, his
"growth," or logical development, as a consequence of his
mistake. First, he doubts that the power he gave his children
is being misused. Then he suspects that it is. Then he is
sure, and becomes indignant. He is furious, next, and flies
into a rage. He is stripped of all authority and is shamed.
He wishes to kill himself. In shame and grief, he goes mad,
and dies.
He planted a seed which grew and bore the kind of fruit
that seed was bound to bear. He never dreamed the fruit
would be so bitter—but that is the result of his character,
which caused his original mistake. And he pays the price.
QUESTION: Would his growth have been the same if he had
chosen the right person—his youngest daughter—as the
most trustworthy?
ANSWER: Naturally not. Each mistake—and its reaction upon
him—grew from the mistake before it. If Lear had made
the right choice in the first place there would have been
no motivation for the later action. His first blunder was in
deciding to invest his authority in his children. He knew
this authority was great, coupled with the highest honor,
and he never doubted the ready assurance from his daugh-
ters that they loved and revered him. He was shocked by
the relative coolness of Cordelia and so made his second
mistake. He asked for words rather than deeds. Everything
that happened thereafter grew from these roots.
QUESTION: Weren't his mistakes simply stupidity?
ANSWER: Yes, but don't forget that all blunders—yours and
mine—are stupid after they are made. At the time they may
grow out of pity, generosity, sympathy, understanding.
What we term stupid at the last may have been a beautiful
gesture at the first.
CHARACTER GROWTH 75

"Growth" is a character's reaction to a conflict in which

he is involved. A character can grow through making the
correct move, as well as the incorrect one—but he must
grow, if he is a real character.
Take a couple. They are in love. Leave them for a while,
and they may produce the elements of a drama. Perhaps
they drift apart, and there is conflict between them; perhaps
their love grows deeper, and conflict comes from outside.
If you ask, "Does real love deepen through adversity?" or if you
say, "Even a great love suffers in adversity," your characters
will have a goal to achieve, and a chance to grow to prove
the premise. The proving of a premise indicates growth on
the part of the characters.

II
Every good play grows from pole to pole.
Let us examine an old motion picture and see whether or
not this is true.
"Professor Mamlock"
(He will go from Isolation, Pole 1, to Collective Action,
Pole II)
STEP i. Isolation. He was unconcerned under the Nazi
tyranny. He was an outstanding personality; he felt above
politics. He never dreamed that anyone could harm him,
although he saw terror all around.
STEP 2. Nazi power reaches into his own class and tortures
his colleagues. He starts to worry. But he still doesn't be-
lieve that anything can happen to him. He sends away
friends who beg him to escape.
STEP 3. At last, he senses that a tragic fate might smash him,
as it did others. He calls his friends, and rationalizes that
he had been justified in being an isolationist. He still is
not ready to give up the ship.
 CHARACTER

STEP 4. Fear grips him. At last he realizes that his previous

stand was sheer blindness.
STEP 5. He wishes to escape, but doesn't know how or where
to turn.
STEP 6. He becomes desperate.
STEP 7. He joins common struggle against Nazism.
STEP 8. He becomes a member of the underground organiza-
tion.
STEP 9. Defies tyranny.
STEP 10. Collective action and death.

Let us now take Nora and Helmer from Doll's House.

NORA: From: submissive, happy-go-lucky, naive, trusting
To: cynical, independent, adult, bitter, disillu-
sioned
HELMER: From: bigoted, domineering, sure of himself, prac-
tical, precise, patronizing, conventional,
ruthless
To: bewildered, unsure, disillusioned, depend-
ent, submissive, weak, tolerant, considerate,
confused
in
HATRED TO LOVE
Before curtain Curtain
1. Insecurity 5 Hatred
2. Humiliation 6. Causing injury
3. Resentment 7. Satisfaction
4. Fury 8. Remorse
9. Humility
10. False generosity
11. Reevaluation
12. Real generosity
13. Sacrifice
14. Love
STRENGTH OF WILL IN A CHARACTER 77

LOVE TO HATRED
Before curtain Curtain
1. Possessive love 5. Suspicion
2. Disappointment 6. Testing
3. Doubt 7. Hurt
4. Questioning 8. Realization
9. Bitterness
10. Reevaluation and failure
to adjust
11. Anger
12. Fury (at self)
13. Fury (at object)
14. Hate

5. Strength of Will in a Character

A weak character cannot carry the burden of protracted
conflict in a play. He cannot support a play. We are forced,
then, to discard such a character as a protagonist. There is
no sport if there is no competition; there is no play if there
is no conflict. Without counterpoint there is no harmony.
The dramatist needs not only characters who are willing to
put up a fight for their convictions. He needs characters who
have the strength, the stamina, to carry this fight to its logical
conclusion.
We may start with a weak man who gathers strength as he
goes along; we may start with a strong man who weakens
through conflict, but even as he weakens he must have the
stamina to bear his humiliation.
Here is an example, in O'Neill's Mourning Becomes
Electra. Brant is talking to Lavinia. He is the illegitimate
child of a servant girl and an almighty Mannon. He is an out-
cast, as far as the Mannons are concerned, and his mother
brought him up in a distant place. But now he has returned,
78 CHARACTER

under an assumed name, to avenge the humiliation his mother

and he have undergone. He is a captain, and he makes love
to Lavinia to hide his affair with her mother. But Lavinia's
servant puts her on her guard.
(Brant tries to take her hand, but at his touch she pulls
away and springs to her feet.)

LAVINIA: [With cold fury] Don't touch me! Don't you dare! You
liar! You—! [Then, as he starts back in confusion, she seizes this
opportunity to follow Seth's (the servant's) advice—staring at
him with deliberately insulting scorn] But I suppose it would be
foolish to expect anything but cheap romantic lies from the son
of a low Canuck nurse girl.
BRANT: [Stunned] What's that? [Then, rage at the insult to his
mother overcoming all prudence, springs to his feet threaten-
ingly] Belay, damn you!—or I'll forget you're a woman. No
Mannon can insult her while I—
LAVINIA: [Appalled now she knows the truth] So it is true—you are
her sonl Oh!
BRANT: [Fighting to control himself—with harsh defiance] And
what if I am? I'm proud to be! My only shame is my dirty Man-
non blood! So that's why you couldn't stand my touching you
just now, is it? You're too good for the son of a servant, eh? By
God, you were glad enough before—!

These characters are vital, full of fight, and they will easily
carry the play to a crescendo. Brant has been planning his
revenge for a long time, and now, when it is almost within
his grasp, he is thwarted. At this point the conflict ripens
into a crisis. We are really eager to know what he is going to
do when he is unmasked. Unfortunately, O'Neill bungles and
distorts his characters in this play—but more about this in our
analysis of plays.

Martha, one of the dead soldiers' wives, is speaking in

Irwin Shaw's Bury the Dead:
STRENGTH OF WILL IN A CHARACTER 79

MARTHA: A house should have a baby. But it should be a clean

house with a full icebox. Why shouldn't I have a baby? Other
people have babies. They don't have to feel their skin crawl
every time they tear a page off the calendar. They go off to
beautiful hospitals in lovely ambulances and have babies be-
tween colored sheets. What's there about them that God likes
that he makes it so easy for them to have babies?
WEBSTER: [One of the soldiers] They're not married to mechanics.
MARTHA: No! It's not eighteen-fifty for them. And now—now it's
worse. Your twenty dollars a month. You hire yourself out to be
killed and I get twenty dollars a month. I wait on line all day to
get a loaf of bread. I've forgotten what butter tastes like. I wait
on line with the rain soaking through my shoes for a pound of
rotten meat once a week. At night I go home. Nobody to talk to,
just sitting watching the bugs, with one little light because the
government's got to save electricity. You had to go off and leave
me to thatl What's the war to me that I have to sit at night with
nobody to talk to? What's the war to you that you had to go off
and—
WEBSTER: That's why I'm standing up now, Martha.
MARTHA: What took you so long, then? Why now? Why not a
month ago, a year ago, ten years ago? Why didn't you stand up
then? Why wait until you're dead? You live on eighteen-fifty a
week, with the roaches, not saying a word, and then when they
kill you, you stand up! You fool!
WEBSTER: I didn't see it before.
MARTHA: Just like you! Wait until it's too late! There's plenty for
live men to stand up for! All right, stand up! It's about time you
talked back. It's about time all you poor, miserable, eighteen-
fifty bastards stood up for themselves and their wives and the
children they can't have! Tell 'em all to stand up! Tell 'em!
Tell 'em! [She shrieks. Blackout.]
These characters, too, are pulsating with fighting strength;
whatever they do, they'll force opposite wills to clash.
Go through all great dramas and you will find that the char-
acters in them force the issue in question until they are beaten
or reach their goal. Even Chekhov's characters are so strong
8o CHARACTER

in their passivity that the accumulated force of circumstance

has a hard time crushing them.
Some weakness which seems inconsequential may easily
provide the starting point of a powerful play.
Look at Tobacco Road. Jeeter Lester, the central figure, is
a weak-kneed man, without the strength to live or die success-
fully. Poverty stares him in the face, his wife and children
starve, and he twiddles his thumbs. No catastrophe is great
enough to move him. This weak, useless man has phenomenal
strength in waiting for a miracle; he can cling tenaciously to
the past, he can ignore the fact that the present offers a new
problem to be solved. He laments endlessly the great injustice
done him in the past—it is his pet theme, yet he does nothing
to correct it.
Is he a weak or a strong character? To our way of thinking
he is one of the strongest characters we have seen in the the-
ater in a long time. He typifies decay, disintegration, and still
he is strong. This is a natural contradiction. Lester stubbornly
maintains his status quo, or seems to maintain it, against the
changes of time. Even to put up a noticeable fight against nat-
ural laws requires tremendous strength, and Jeeter Lester
has that strength, although ever-changing conditions will liq-
uidate him as they have liquidated all things which could
not adapt themselves. Jeeter and the dinosaur are of one spirit.
Jeeter Lester represents a class: the dispossessed small farm-
ers. Modern machinery, the accumulation of wealth in a few
hands, competition, taxes, assessments have put him and his
class out of business. He will not organize with the dispos-
sessed because he is unaware of the value of organization.
Because his ancestors never organized, he lives in miserable
isolation, ignorant of the outside world. He is stubborn in his
ignorance. His tradition is against change. But in his weak-
ness he is exceptionally strong, and condemns himself and
his class to slow death rather than change. Yes, Jeeter Lester
is a strong man.
STRENGTH OF WILL IN A CHARACTER 81

Can anyone imagine a sweeter and weaker character than

the classic mother? Can one forget her eternal vigilance, ten-
der care, anxious warnings? She subordinates herself to one
goal, the success of her child, sacrificing even her life, if nec-
essary. Isn't your mother like that? Enough mothers are, to
have built up a maternal tradition. Haven't you been haunted
in your dreams, at least once, by your mother's smile, her sul-
len silence, her persistent admonitions, her tears? Haven't
you, at least once, felt like a murderer in going against your
mother's wishes? All the sins in the world, put together, have
never made mankind into greater liars than their sweet
mothers.
Seemingly weak, always ready to retreat and give in, yet
almost always the winner in the end, such is Mother. You
don't always know how you have been roped and tied, but
you find that you have made a promise your mind rebels at
breaking.
Are mothers weak? Emphatically no! Think of The Silver
Cord, by Sidney Howard. Here is a mother wrecking the
lives of her own children—not with brutality, but with sweet,
weak words, with bitter tears, with seemingly ineffectual si-
lence. In the end she ruined the lives of all about her. Is she
weak?
Who, then, are the weak characters as opposed to the strong
ones? They are those who have no power to put up a fight.
Jeeter Lester, for instance, is inactive in the face of starva-
tion. To go hungry without doing anything about it is queer,
to say the least. The man has stamina, even if it is misdirected.
Self-preservation is a natural law, and it leads both animals
and men to hunt, steal, and murder, to get food. Jeeter Lester
disobeys this law. He has his tradition, he has his ancestral
home. The property belongs to him as it did to his ancestors,
and he feels that to run away from it in adversity would be
cowardly. He thinks it is fortitude to take all the punishment
he gets for the sake of what belongs to him. It may be that
82 CHARACTER

basic laziness, even cowardice, has made him the tenacious

man he is, but the resultant behavior is strong.
The truly weak character is the person who will not fight
because the pressure is not strong enough.
Take Hamlet. He is persistent and with bulldog tenacity
proves the facts of his father's death. He has weaknesses, else
he would not have had to hide behind assumed insanity. His
sensitivity is a drawback in his fight, yet he kills Polonius who
he thinks is spying on him. Hamlet is a complete character,
hence he is ideal material for a play, as is Jeeter. Contradic-
tion is the essence of conflict, and when a character can over-
come his internal contradictions to win his goal, he is strong.
The stool pigeon in Black Pit offers a good example of a
weak, badly drawn character. He could never make up his
mind what to do. The author wanted us to see the danger
of compromise, but the audience felt sympathy and pity for
the man they were supposed to despise.
The man was never really a stool pigeon. He was not de-
fiant, but ashamed. He knew he was doing something wrong,
but couldn't help it. On the other hand, he wasn't a class-
conscious worker, because he was unfaithful to his class—and
he could not do anything about that, either.
Where there is no contradiction there is no conflict. In this
case the contradiction was ill-defined, as was the conflict. The
man let himself be entangled in a web and lacked the courage
to get out. His shame was not deep enough to force him into
a decision—the only compromise—nor was his love for his
family great enough to overcome all opposition and make
him a stool pigeon in earnest. He could not make up his mind
one way or the other, and such a person is incapable of carry-
ing a play. We can now define a weak character in another
way: "A weak character is one who, for any reason, cannot
make a decision to act."
Is Joe, the stool pigeon, so inherently weak that he would
have remained undecided under any conditions? No. If the
STRENGTH OF WILL IN A CHARACTER 83

situation in which he finds himself is not pressing enough, it

is the author's duty to find a more clearly defined premise.
Under greater pressure Joe would have reacted more vio-
lently than he did. It was not enough to arouse Joe that his
wife would have to give birth to her child without a midwife.
That was an everyday occurrence in his world, and most of
the women survived.
But there is no character who would not fight back under
the right circumstances. If he is weak and unresisting, it is be-
cause the author has not found the psychological moment
when he is not only ready, but eager to fight. The point of
attack was miscalculated. Or it might be put this way: a de-
cision must be permitted to mature. The author may catch
a character in a period of transition, when he is not yet ready
to act. Many a character fails because the author forces him
into action he is not ready to take, action he will not be ready
to take for an hour, or a year, or twenty years.

We find this little item on the editorial page of The New

York Times.
MURDER AND INSANITY
After studying some 500 murders, the Metropolitan Life Insur-
ance Company expresses in its Bulletin mild astonishment at the
reasons. An irate husband beats his wife to death because dinner
is not ready; one friend kills another over a matter of 2$ cents; a
lunchroom proprietor shoots a customer after an argument over
a sandwich; a youth kills his mother because she upbraids him
about his drinking; a barfly slashes another to death over a dispute
as to who shall drop a nickel into a slot and play a mechanical
piano first.
Were these people all mad? What could have motivated
them to take human life over a pittance, for a grudge? Nor-
mal people do not commit such atrocities—perhaps they really
were insane.
84 CHARACTER

There is only one way to find out and that is to examine

the physiological, sociological, and psychological make-up of
a murderer in a case which, on the surface, is brutal and shock-
ing.
Our man is fifty years old. He killed a man—stabbed him
—because of a joke. Everyone thought him a vicious, unsocial
creature, a beast. Let us see what he was.
The murderer's history shows that he was patient and harm-
less, a good provider, an excellent father, a respected citizen,
an esteemed neighbor. He had worked as bookkeeper in one
firm for thirty years. His employers found him honest, respon-
sible, inoffensive. They were shocked when he was arrested for
murder.
The groundwork for his crime began thirty-two years ago,
when he was married. He was eighteen, and in love with his
wife, although she was exactly his opposite in nature. She was
vain, unreliable, flirtatious, untruthful. He had to close his
eyes to her constant indiscretions, because he sincerely be-
lieved that she would someday change for the better. He never
did anything decisive to stop her shameful behavior, although
he threatened her now and again. But it remained only a
threat.
A playwright, seeing him at this point, would have found
him too weak and inoffensive to make a dramatic character.
He felt the humiliation deeply, but he was powerless to do
anything about it. There is no hint of what the man will
become.
Years pass. His wife gives him three beautiful children,
and he hopes that with advanced age she will finally change.
She does. She becomes more careful, and seems really to settle
down, to be a good wife and mother.
Then one day she disappears, never to return. At first, the
poor man almost goes mad, but he recovers and takes over
her duties around the house along with his work. He re-
STRENGTH OF WILL IN A CHARACTER 85

ceives no thanks from his children for his sacrifice. They

abuse him, and leave him at the first opportunity.
On the surface our man has been bearing all this stoically.
Perhaps he is a coward, lacking the energy to resist or revolt.
Perhaps he has superhuman energy and the courage to bear
abuse and injustice.
Now he loses the house which was his pride. He is deeply
moved and makes efforts to save it. But he cannot, and he is
crushed, although not to the point where he would take
drastic action. He is still the timid Milquetoast: changed, yes;
bitter, yes; uneasy, yes. Looking for an answer, and not find-
ing one, he is bewildered, alone. Instead of revolting, he be-
comes a recluse.
So far he's still not much good to a dramatist—he still has
not made a decision.
Now only his job, which has lately become insecure, holds
him to sanity. Then the last straw breaks his back. A younger
man is put into the place where he slaved for thirty years. He
is aroused to an unbelievable fury, for at last he has reached
the breaking point. And when a man makes a harmless joke
—about the depression, perhaps—he kills him. He murders
for no apparent cause a man who never hurt him.
If you look hard enough, you will find that there is always
a long chain of circumstances leading to a seemingly unmo-
tivated crime. And these "circumstances" can be found in
the criminal's physical, sociological, and mental make-up.

This is related to what has been said about miscalculation.

An author must realize how vitally important it is to catch
a character at the high point of mental development, a sub-
ject we'll discuss more fully when we speak of "Point of At-
tack." Suffice it to say here that every living creature is capable
of doing anything, if the conditions around him are strong
enough.
86 CHARACTER

Hamlet is a different man at the end of the play from what

he was at the beginning. In fact, he changes on every page—
not illogically, but in a steady line of growth. We are all
changing with every passing minute, hour, day, week, month,
and year. The problem is to find the moment at which it is
most advantageous for the playwright to deal with a character.
What we call Hamlet's weakness is his delay in taking a step
(sometimes fatal) until he has full evidence. But his iron
determination, his devotion to his cause, are strong. He makes
a decision. Jeeter Lester, too, made a decision to stay, whether
or not this decision was conscious. As a matter of fact, Jeeter's
will was unconscious—subconscious, let us say—whereas
Hamlet's determination to prove that the king murdered his
father was conscious. Hamlet was acting in accordance with a
premise he was aware of, while Lester stayed because he did
not know what else to do.
The dramatist may use either type. This is the point at
which inventiveness comes to the fore. The trouble starts
when the author puts a Chekhovian character into a blood-
and-thunder play, or vice versa. You cannot force a character
to make a decision before he is good and ready. If you try
that, you will find that the action is superficial and trite—it
will not reflect the real character.
So as you see, there is really no such thing as weak charac-
ter. The question is: did you catch your character at that
particular moment when he was ready for conflict?

6. Plot or Character—Which?
What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have not yet been discov-
ered. —EMERSON
Despite the frequent quotations from Aristotle, and the
work done by Freud on one of the three elements of a
human being, character has not been given the penetrat-
PLOT OR CHARACTER—WHICH? 87

ing analysis which scientists give the atom or the cosmic ray.
William Archer, in his Playmaking, a Manual of Crafts-
manship, says:
. . . To reproduce character can neither be acquired nor regu-
lated by theoretical recommendations.
We readily agree that "theoretical recommendations" are
of no use to anyone—but what of concrete recommendation?
While it is true that the seemingly inanimate objects are
easier to examine, the involved, ever-moving character of
man must also be analyzed—and the task is organized, made
simpler, by recommendations.
Specific directions for character-drawing would be like rules for
becoming six feet high. Either you have it in you, or you have it
not,
says Mr. Archer. This is a sweeping, and unscientific, state-
ment. And it has a familiar ring. It is, in essence, the answer
that was given to Leeuwenhoek, inventor of the microscope;
to Galileo, who was almost burned as a heretic when he said
the earth moved. Fulton's steamboat was received with de-
rision. "It won't move!" the crowds shouted, and when it did
move they cried, "It won't stop!"
Yet today cosmic rays are made to photograph and meas-
ure themselves.
"Either you have it in you, or you have it not," says Mr.
Archer, thus admitting that one man has the ability to draw
character, to peneterate the impenetrable, whereas another
has not. But if one man can do it, and if we know how he
did it, can we not learn from him? One man does it by ob-
servation. He is privileged to see things which others pass
by. Is it that these less fortunate men cannot see the obvious?
Perhaps. When we read a bad play carefully, we are struck
by the author's ignorance of his characters; and when we
read a good play carefully, we are struck by the wealth of
information the writer displays. Then why may we not sug-
88 CHARACTER

gest to the less-privileged playwright that he train his eye to

see, and his mind to understand? Why may we not recom-
mend observation?
If the "have-not" playwright has imagination, selectivity,
writing ability, he will be a better man for learning con-
sciously what the "have" playwright knows only by instinct.
How is it that even the genius who has it within his power
to be six feet tall frequently misses the mark? Why is it that
the man who once knew how to draw character now makes
a fool of himself? Might it be because he relied solely upon
his instinctive powers? Why shouldn't these powers work all
the time? The privileged one either has the power in him or
he has not.
We trust you will admit that any number of geniuses have
written any number of bad plays—because they relied on an
instinctive power which is, at best, a hit-or-miss affair. One
is not supposed to conduct important business on a hunch,
a feeling, a whim—one is supposed to act upon knowledge.
Mr. Archer's definition of character follows:
. . . for the practical purposes of the dramatist it may be defined
as a complex of intellectual, emotional, and nervous habit.
This hardly seems enough, so we turn to Webster's Inter-
national Dictionary. Perhaps Mr. Archer's words hold more
than appeared on the surface.
Complex: composed of two or more parts; composite; not simple.
Intellectual: apprehensible by intellect alone; hence of a spir-
itual nature; perceptible only to inspired vision or by spiritual in-
sight.
Emotion: an agitation, disturbance, a tumultuous movement
whether physical or social.

Now we know. It is so simple and so complex at the same

time. Not much help, it's true, but refreshing, nevertheless.
PLOT OR CHARACTER WHICH? 89

It is not enough to know that a character consists of "com-

plex intellectual, emotional, and nervous habit." We must
know precisely what this "complex intellectual" means. We
have found that every human being consists of three dimen-
sions: physiological, sociological, and psychological. If we
make a further breakdown of these dimensions, we shall per-
ceive that the physical, social, and mental make-up contains
the minute genes—the builder, the mover in all our actions
which will motivate everything we do.

A shipbuilder knows the material he is working with,

knows how well it can withstand the ravages of time, how
much weight it can carry. He must know these things if he
wishes to avoid disaster.
A dramatist should know the material he is working with:
his characters. He should know how much weight they can
carry, how well they can support his construction: the play.
There are so many conflicting ideas about character that
it might be a good idea for us to review a few of them before
we attempt to go further.
John Howard Lawson writes in his book, The Theory and
Technique of Playwriting:
People find it curiously difficult to consider a story as something
which is in the process of becoming: confusion on this point exists
in all textbooks on playwriting, and is a stumbling block to all
playwrights.
Yes, it is a stumbling block, because they start to build
their house from the roof down, instead of starting with
premise and showing a character in relation to his environ-
ment. Lawson says as much in his introduction:
A play is not a bundle of isolated elements: dialogue, characteriza-
tion, etc., etc. It is a living thing, in which all of these elements
have been fused.
90 CHARACTER

This is true, but on the very next page he writes:

We can study the form, the outwardness of a play, but the inward-
ness, the soul, eludes our grasp.

It will elude us forever if we fail to understand a basic prin-

ciple: the so-called "inwardness," the seemingly unpredicta-
ble soul, is nothing more nor less than character.
Lawson's fundamental mistake is using dialectics upside
down. He accepts Aristotle's basic error, "character is sub-
sidiary to action," and from this springs his confusion. It is
vain for him to insist on a "social framework" when he puts
the cart before the horse.
We contend that character is the most interesting phe-
nomenon anywhere. Every character represents a world of
his own, and the more you know of this person, the more
interested you become. We have in mind just now George
Kelly's Craig's Wife. It is far from being a well-constructed
play but there is a conscious attempt to build character. Kelly
shows us a world through the eyes of Craig's wife, a drab and
monotonous world, but a real one.
George Bernard Shaw said that he was not governed by
principle, but by inspiration. If any man, inspired or not,
builds on character, he is going in the right direction and
is employing the right principle, consciously or otherwise.
The vital thing is not what the playwright says, but what he
does. Every great literary work grew from character, even if
the author planned the action first. As soon as his characters
were created they took precedence, and the action had to be
reshaped to suit them.
Let us suppose we were building a house. We started at
the wrong end and it collapsed. We began again—at the
top—and it collapsed. And so a third and a fourth time. But
eventually we make it stand up, without the slightest idea
of what change in our method was responsible for our sue-
PLOT OR CHARACTER—WHICH? 91

cess. Can we now, without compunction, give advice on the

construction of houses? Can we honestly say: it must col-
lapse four times before it can stand?
The great plays came down to us from men who had un-
limited patience for work. Perhaps they started their plays
at the wrong end, but they fought themselves back inch by
inch, until they made character the foundation of their work,
although they may not have been objectively conscious that
character is the only element that could serve as the founda-
tion.
Says Lawson:
Of course it is hard to think of situations, and this depends upon
the power of the writer's "inspiration "
If we know that a character embodies in himself not only
his environment, but his heredity, his likes and dislikes, even
the climate of the town where he was born, we do not find
it hard to think of situations. The situations are inherent in
the character.
George P. Baker quotes Dumas the Younger:
Before every situation that a dramatist creates, he should ask him-
self three questions: What should / do? What would other people
do? What ought to be done?
Isn't it strange to ask everyone what should be done in a
situation, except the character who created the situation?
Why not ask him? He is in a position to know the answer
better than anyone else.
John Galsworthy seems to have grasped this simple truth,
for he claims that character creates plot, not vice versa. What-
ever Lessing had to say about the matter, he built on charac-
ter. So did Ben Jonson—in fact, he sacrificed many theatrical
devices to bring his characters into sharper relief. Chekhov
has no story to tell, no situation to speak of, but his plays
are popular and will be so in time to come, because he per-
92 CHARACTER

mits his characters to reveal themselves and the time in which

they lived.
Engels says in Anti-Duhring:

Every organic being is at each moment both the same and not the
same; at each moment it is assimilating matter drawn from without
and excreting other matter; every moment the cells of its body are
dying and new ones are being formed; in fact, within a longer or
shorter period the matter of its body is completely removed and is
replaced by other atoms of matter, so that every organic thing is at
all times itself and yet something other than itself.
A character thus has the capacity to completely reverse himself
under internal and external stimulus. Like every other organic
being, he changes continuously.

If this is true, and we know it is true, how can one invent

a situation, or a story, which is a static thing, and force it
upon the character who is in a state of constant change?
Starting with the premise "Character is subsidiary to
action," it was inevitable that the textbook writers should
become confused. Baker quotes Sardou, who replied as fol-
lows to the question of how plays revealed themselves to him:
The problem is invariable. It appears as a kind of equation from
which the unknown quantity must be found. The problem gives
me no peace till I have found the answer.
Perhaps Sardou and Baker have found the answer, but
they have not given it to the young playwright.
Character and environment are so closely interrelated that
we have to consider them as one. They react upon each other.
If one is faulty, it affects the other, just as the disease of one
part of the body causes the whole to suffer.
The plot is the first consideration, and as it were, the soul of the
tragedy. Character holds the second place,
writes Aristotle in his Poetics.
PLOT OR CHARACTER—WHICH? 93

Character comes in as subsidiary to the action. Hence the incidents

and the plot are the end of a tragedy. . . . Without action there
cannot be a tragedy; there may be without character. . . . The
drama interests us, not predominantly by its depiction of human
nature, but primarily by the situations and only secondarily by the
feelings of those therein involved.

After checking through volumes and volumes in search

of the answer to which is more important, character or plot,
we concluded that ninety-nine per cent of the writings on
this issue are confused and barely understandable.
Consider this statement by Archer, in Playmaking:

A play can exist without anything that can be called character,

but not without some sort of action.

But a few pages later:

Action ought to exist for the sake of character: when the relation-
ship is reversed the play may be an ingenious toy, but scarcely a
vital work of art.

To find the real answer is not an academic problem. It is

an answer which will make a deep impression on the future
of playwriting, since it is not the answer which was dictated
by Aristotle.
We are going to take the oldest of all plots, a trite, worn-
out triangle, a vaudeville skit, to prove our point.
A husband starts on a two-day trip, but forgets something
and comes back to the house. He finds his wife in another
man's arms. Let us suppose that the husband is a man of five
feet three. The lover is a giant. The situation hinges on the
husband—what will he do? If he is free of the author's inter-
ference, he will do what his character dictates, what his physi-
cal, social, and psychological make-up tell him to do.
If he is a coward, he may apologize, beg forgiveness for
94 CHARACTER

his intrusion, and flee—grateful that the lover let him go

unmolested.
But perhaps the husband's short stature has made him
cocky, has forced him to be aggressive. He springs at the big
man in a fury, unmindful that he may be the looser.
Perhaps he is a cynic, and sneers; perhaps he is imper-
turable, and laughs; perhaps any number of things—de-
pending on the character.
A coward might create a farce, a brave man might create a
tragedy.
Take Hamlet, the brooding Dane, and let him—not
Romeo—fall in love with Juliet. What would have hap-
pened? He might have contemplated the matter too long,
muttering to himself beautiful soliloquies about the immor-
tality of the soul and the deathlessness of love, which, like
the phoenix, rises anew every spring. He might have con-
sulted his friends, his father, to make peace with the Capulets,
and while these negotiations went on, Juliet, not suspecting
that Hamlet loved her, would have been safely married to
Paris. Then Hamlet could have brooded still more and
cursed his fate.
While Romeo runs into trouble with reckless abandon,
Hamlet looks into the mechanism of his problem. While
Hamlet hesitates, Romeo acts.
Obviously their conflicts grew out of their character, and
not vice versa.
If you try to force a character into a situation where he
does not belong, you will be like Procrustes who cut the feet
off the sleeper to make him fit the bed.
Which is more important, plot or character? Let us trade
the sensitive, brooding Hamlet for a pleasure-loving prince,
whose one reason for living is the privileges his princehood
affords him. Would he avenge his father's death? Hardly.
He would turn the tragedy to comedy.
Let us trade the naive Nora, ignorant of money matters,
PLOT OR CHARACTER—WHICH? 95

forging a note for her husband, for a mature woman, aware

of finance, too honest to let her love for her husband lead
her astray. This new Nora would not have forged the note,
and Helmer would have died then and there.
The sun, along with its other activities, creates rain. If it
is true that the characters are secondary in importance, there
is no reason why we should not use the moon instead of the
sun. Do we get the same plot results? Emphatically: no!
Something will happen, however. The moon will witness
the slow death of the earth, in place of the turbulent life
created by the sun. We substituted only one character. This,
of course, changed our premise and made a considerable alter-
ation in the outcome of the play. With the sun: life. With
the moon: death.
The inference is unmistakable: character creates plot, not
vice versa.
It is not difficult to understand why Aristotle thought of
character as he did. When Sophocles wrote Oedipus Rex,
when Aeschylus wrote Agamemnon, when Euripides wrote
Medea, Fate was supposed to have played the chief role in
the drama. The gods spoke, and men lived or died in ac-
cordance with what they said. "The structure of the in-
cidents" was ordained by the gods—the characters were
merely men who did what had been prearranged for them.
But, while the audience believed this, and Aristotle based
his theories upon it, it does not hold true in the plays them-
selves. In all important Greek plays, the characters create the
action. The playwrights substituted the Fates for the premise
as we know it today. The results, however, were identical.
If Oedipus had been any other type of man, tragedy would
not have befallen him. Had he not been hot-tempered, he
would not have killed a stranger on the road. Had he not
been stubborn, he would not have forced the issue of who
killed Laius. With rare perseverance he dug out the smallest
details, continuing because he was honest, even when the
96 CHARACTER

accusing finger pointed at him. Had he not been honest, he

would not have punished the murderer by blinding himself.
CHORUS: O doer of dread deeds, how couldst thou mar
Thy vision thus? What demon goaded thee?
OEDIPUS: Apollo, friends, Apollo, he it was
That brought these ills to pass;
But the right hand that dealt the blow
Was mine, none other.
Why should Oedipus blind himself if the gods had or-
dained that he should be punished anyway? They would
certainly have taken care of their promise. But we know that
he punished himself because of his rare character. He says:
How could I longer see when sight
Brought no delight?

A scoundrel would not have felt that way. He might have

been exiled and the prophecy fulfilled—but that would have
played havoc with the majesty of Oedipus as a drama.
Aristotle was mistaken in his time, and our scholars are
mistaken today when they accept his rulings concerning
character. Character was the great factor in Aristotle's time,
and no fine play ever was or ever will be written without it.
Through Medea's conniving her brother was killed. She
sacrificed him for the husband, Jason, who later brushed her
aside to marry King Creon's daughter. Her grim deed brought
its own poetic justice. What kind of man was it who would
marry such a woman? Exactly the kind Jason proved to be
—a ruthless betrayer. Both Jason and Medea were made of
stuff that any playwright might envy. They stand on their
own feet, without any help from Zeus. They are well drawn,
tridimensional. They are constantly growing, which is one of
the fundamental principles of great writing.
The Greek plays which have come down to us boast many
extraordinary characters which disprove the Aristotelian
PLOT OR CHARACTER—WHICH? 97

contention. If character were subsidiary to action, Agamem-

non would not inevitably have died by the hand of Clytem-
nestra.
Before the action starts, in Oedipus Rex, Laius, King of
Thebes, knew "of the prophecy that the child born to him
by his queen, Jocasta, would slay his father and wed his
mother." So, when in time a son was born, the infant's feet
were riveted together and he was left to die on Mount Cith-
aeron. But a shepherd found the child and tended him and
delivered him to another shepherd who took him to his
master, the King of Corinth. When Oedipus learned of the
prophecy, he fled to thwart the fulfillment of the Delphic
oracle. In his wanderings he killed his father, Laius, without
knowing his identity, and entered the kingdom of Thebes.
But how did Oedipus learn of the prophecy? At a ban-
quet, he was told by a drunkard, "Thou art no true son of
thy sire." Disturbed, he sought to learn more.
So privily without their leave I went to Delphi, and Apollo sent
me back, baulked of the knowledge that I came to seek.
Why did Apollo withhold the information Oedipus
wanted?
But other grievous things he prophesied,
Woes, lamentations, mourning, portents dire,
To wit, I should defile my mother's bed,
And raise seed too loathsome to behold.
It would seem that Apollo deliberately withheld the real
identity of Oedipus' father. Why? Because "Fate," as prem-
ise, drives the character to the inevitable end, and Sophocles
needed that driving force. But let's take it for granted that
Apollo wished to make Oedipus flee, and at the end fulfill
the prophecy. We shan't ask the reasons for the dire fate of
two innocent beings. Instead, let us go to the opening of the
play and watch Oedipus' character grow.
98 CHARACTER

He was traveling incognito, a grown warrior, just and noble,

fleeing to escape his fate. He was in no easy mood when he
drew near the triple-branching road where the murder oc-
curred. He says:

A herald met me and a man who sat

In a car drawn by colts—as in the tale—
The man in front and the old man himself
Threatened to thrust me rudely from the path.
So they were rude to him and used force, and only then:

I struck him, and the old man, seeing this,

Watched till I passed and from his car brought down
Full on my head the double-pointed goad.

Only then Oedipus struck.

. . . . one stroke
Of my good staff sufficed to fling him clean
Out of the chariot seat and laid him prone.

The incident shows that the attack on Laius and his es-
corts was motivated. They were rude, Oedipus was in a bad
mood, and hot-tempered besides, and he acted according to
his character. Apollo is certainly secondary here. Again, you
may say that Oedipus is still carrying out the desire of the
Fates—when he is only proving the premise.
Once in Thebes, Oedipus answers the riddle of the Sphinx,
at which thousands had failed. The Sphinx would ask those
who entered or left the city: what was it which in the morning
walks on four legs, at midday on two, in the evening on three?
Oedipus answered: man, proving himself the wisest among
them. The Sphinx departed in shame, and the Thebans, in
joy at the end of their bondage, elected him their king.
So we know that Oedipus was brave, impulsive, wise—and
by way of further proof, Sophocles tells us that the Thebans
PLOT OR CHARACTER—WHICH? 99

prospered under his rule. Anything that happened to Oedipus

happened because of his character.
If you forget the "Argument" which states the ancient be-
liefs concerning the part played by the gods, and read the
play as it stands, you will see the validity of our assertion.
Character makes the plot.
The moment Moliere established Orgon as Tartuffe's dupe,
the plot automatically unfolded itself. Orgon represents a
religious fanatic. It stands to reason that a converted bigot
disapproves of everything he believed before.
Moliere needed a man who was intolerant of everything
worldly. Through conversion, Orgon became this man. This
state of affairs suggests that such a man should have a family
who indulged in all the innocent joys of life. Our man, Orgon,
must necessarily regard all these earthly activities as sinful.
Such a man will go the limit to change the ways of those
under his influence or domination. He will try to reform
them. They will resent it.
This determination forced the conflict, and, as the author
had a clear-cut premise, the story grew out of this character.
When the author has a clear-cut premise, it is child's play
to find the character who will carry the burden of that prem-
ise. When we accept the premise "Great love defies even
death," we necessarily will think of a couple who defy tradi-
tion, parental objections, and death itself. What kind of per-
son has the capacity to do all this? Certainly not Hamlet or
a professor of mathematics. He must be young, proud, im-
petuous. He is Romeo. Romeo fits the part assigned to him
as easily as Orgon does in Tartuffe. Their characters create
the conflict. A plot without character is a makeshift contrap-
tion, dangling between heaven and earth like Mohammed's
coffin.
What would the reader think of us if we were to announce
that, after long and arduous study, we had come to the con-
clusion that honey is beneficial to mankind, but that the
100 CHARACTER

bee's importance is secondary, and that the bee is therefore

subsidiary to its product? What would you think if we should
say that the fragrance is more important than the flower, the
song more important than the bird?
We should like to alter the quotation from Emerson with
which we opened this chapter. For our purposes it should
read:
What is a character? A factor whose virtues have not yet been dis-
covered.

7. Characters Plotting Their Own Play

"Shallow men believe in luck," said Emerson. There is
no luck involved in the success of Ibsen's plays. He studied,
he planned, he worked hard. Let us try to look into his
workroom and see him at work. Let us try to analyze Nora
and Helmer of A Doll's House as they start to plot their own
story, according to the premise and character principle.
There is no doubt that Ibsen was struck by the inequality
of women in his time. (The play was written in 1879.) Be-
ing a crusader of a sort, he wanted to prove that "Inequality
of the sexes in marriage breeds unhappiness."
To begin with, Ibsen knew he needed two characters to
prove his premise: a husband and a wife. But not any couple
would do. He had to have a husband who would epitomize
the selfishness of all the men of the time, and a wife who
would symbolize the subjugation of all the women. He was
looking for a self-centered man and a sacrificing woman.
He chose Helmer and Nora, but as yet they were only
names bearing the tags "selfish" and "unselfish." The next
natural step was to round them out. The author had to be
very careful in constructing his characters, because later, in
conflict, they would have to make their own decisions as to
what to do or what not to do. And since Ibsen had a clear-
CHARACTERS PLOTTING THEIR OWN PLAY 101

cut premise which he was eager to prove, his characters had

to be people who could stand alone without the author's help.
Helmer became manager at a bank. He must have been a
very industrious, conscientious man to earn the highest rank
in an important institution. He oozes responsibility, suggest-
ing a merciless superior who is a stickler for order. No doubt
he demands punctuality and devotion from his subordinates.
He has an overdose of civic pride; he knows the importance
of his station and guards it with the utmost care. Respecta-
bility is his highest aim, and he is ready to sacrifice anything,
even love, to gain it. In short, Helmer is a man who is hated
by his subordinates and admired by his superiors. He is
human only at home, and then with a vengeance. His love
for his family is boundless, as is often the case with a man
who is hated and feared by others, and he thus needs more
love than the average man.
He is about thirty-eight years old, a man of average height
with a determined nature. His speech, even at home, is unctu-
ous, grave, constantly admonishing. He suggests a middle-
class background, honest and not too well off. The constant
thought he gives to his beloved bank seems to indicate that
his ambition, as a youngster, was to hold just such a post in
just such an organization. He is extremely satisfied with him-
self and has no doubts for the future.
He has no harmful habits, and does not smoke or drink
except for a glass or two on special occasions. We see him,
then, a self-centered man with high moral principles which
he demands that others observe.
All these things can be seen in the play, and while they
make only a sketchy character study, they indicate that Ib-
sen must have known a great deal about Helmer. He also
must have known that the woman would have to oppose all
the ideals the man represented.
So he sketched Nora. She is a child: spendthrift, irrespon-
sible, lying, cheating as a child might. She is a skylark, danc-
102 CHARACTER

ing, singing, careless—but loving her husband and children

sincerely. It is the crux of her character that she loves her
husband enough to do things for him which she would not
dream of doing for anyone else.
Nora has a fine, searching mind, but she knows little of
the society in which she lives. Because of her love and ad-
miration for Helmer she is willing to be a doll wife, and as
a result her mental growth is retarded despite her intelli-
gence. She was a pampered daughter, given over to her hus-
band for further pampering.
She is twenty-eight or thirty years old, charming, attractive.
Her background is not as spotless as Helmer's, for her father,
too, was happy-go-lucky. He had peculiar ideas, and there
was a hint of scandal in the family closet. Nora's one selfish-
ness, perhaps, is her desire to see everyone as happy as she.
Here stand the two characters which will generate con-
flict. But how? There is not a single hint that a triangle
situation can ever develop between them. What possible
conflict can arise between a couple who love each other so?
If we are in any doubt, we must go back to the character
studies and to the premise. There we shall find a clue. We
look, and find one. Since Nora represents unselfishness, love,
she will do something for her family, preferably for her hus-
band, which will be misunderstood by him. But what kind
of act will it be? If we are stuck again, we can again read
the character studies which must point the answer. Helmer
represents respectability. Well and good. Nora's act should
undermine or threaten the position he holds. But since she
is unselfish, the deed must be done for his sake, and his re-
action must show the hollowness of his love when it is
matched against his respectability.
What type of act would throw this man off balance to
such an extent that he forgets everything when his position
is threatened? Only an act which he knows from his own ex-
CHARACTERS PLOTTING THEIR OWN PLAY 103

perience to be most contemptible and most disgraceful: some-

thing concerning money.
Theft? That might be it, but Nora is not a thief, nor does
she have access to much money. But what she does must have
something to do with securing money. She must need the
money badly, and it must be an amount which is larger than
she could put her hands on, but small enough for her to ob-
tain without raising a great to-do.
Before we go further we must know her motive for ob-
taining money in some way annoying—to put it mildly!—
to her husband. Perhaps he is in debt— No, no. Helmer
would never contract debts which could not be taken care
of. Perhaps she needs some household accessory? No, that
would not be to Helmer's vital interest. Sickness? Excellent
idea. Helmer himself is ill, and Nora needs money to take
care of him.
Nora's reasoning is easy to follow. She knows little of
money matters. She needs money for Helmer, but Helmer
would rather die than borrow. She cannot go to friends, lest
Helmer discover what she has done and be humiliated. She
cannot steal, as we have seen. The only course open is to go
to a professional money-lender. She is aware, however, that as
a woman, her signature will not be enough. She cannot ask
a friend to countersign without encountering the unpleasant
questions she is trying to avoid. A stranger? She could hardly
approach a man she does not know without leaving the way
open for an immoral proposition. She loves her husband too
much even to think of such a thing. Only one person would
do it for her—her father. But he is a very sick man, on the
verge of dying. Healthy, he would help her get money, but
there would be no play then. The characters must prove the
premise through conflict; therefore Nora's father is, of neces-
sity, dead.
Nora bemoans this fact, and that gives her an idea. She
104 CHARACTER

will forge her father's signature. She's elated, once she has
found this only way out. The idea is so perfect that she bub-
bles with joy. She not only has a way of getting the money,
but of concealing from Helmer the manner in which it will
be obtained. She will tell him that her father left it to her,
and he will not be able to refuse it. It will be his.
She goes through with it, receives the money, and is su-
premely happy.
There is one hitch in the scheme. The money-lender knows
the family—he works in the same bank as Helmer. He has
known all along that the signature was forged, but the forgery
is worth more to him than the best guarantee or deposition.
If Nora cannot pay it (live up to it) Helmer will do so a
thousandfold. That's why he is Helmer. With his respecta-
bility at stake, his position to be considered, he would do
anything. The money-lender is safe.
If you read over the character sketches of Nora and Hel-
mer, you will see that their characters made the story possible.

QUESTION: Who forced Nora to do what she did? Why couldn't

she have overcome the various considerations and bor-
rowed money legally?
ANSWER: The premise forced her to choose only one direc-
tion—the one which will prove it. You will say—and we
shall agree—that a person has the privilege of choosing
a hundred different ways to achieve his purpose. But not
when you have a clear premise which you wish to prove.
After close scrutiny and elimination you must find the
one way which will lead you to ydur goal—prove your
premise. Ibsen chose that one way, by drawing characters
who would naturally behave in a way to prove his premise.
QUESTION: I don't see why there should be only one way to
build a conflict. I don't believe that there was nothing for
Nora to do but forge her father's name.
CHARACTERS PLOTTING THEIR OWN PLAY I05

ANSWER: What would you have her do instead?

QUESTION: I don't know, but there must be some other way.
ANSWER: If you refuse to think, the argument is over.
QUESTION: Well, why wouldn't stealing be as plausible as
forging?
ANSWER: We have already pointed out that she had no ac-
cess to money, but let us pretend that she did. From
whom would she steal? Not Helmer, certainly, since he has
no money. Relatives? All right—but would they expose
her when they learned of the theft? They could not do so
without disgracing the family name, and the chances are
all in favor of their saying nothing. Would she steal from
neighbors, strangers? That's foreign to her character. But
suppose she does—it serves only to complicate matters.
QUESTION: Isn't that what you want—conflict?
ANSWER: Only when it proves the premise.
QUESTION: Doesn't stealing do that?
ANSWER: NO. When she forged her father's name, she put only
her husband and herself in jeopardy; by stealing she hurts
innocent people, not otherwise involved in the story. Be-
sides, by stealing she changes the premise. The fear of dis-
covery and inevitable disgrace would overshadow the orig-
inal premise. It would be a denunciation of theft, not a
plea for woman's equality.
But, you ask, what if Nora stole and was not caught?
That would prove her a good thief—but not a woman
meriting equality. And if she were caught? A heroic strug-
gle would ensue in which Helmer would fight to get her
out of prison—and then discard her. This is what his re-
spectability would force him to do, thereby proving the
exact opposite of the premise with which you began. No,
my friend. You have a premise on the one side and a perfect
character study on the other. You must stay on the straight
road marked by these limits and not wander off on a byway.
106 CHARACTER

QUESTION: It seems you can't get away from that premise.

ANSWER: It seems so. The premise is a tyrantwho permits you
to go only one way—the way of absolute proof.
QUESTION: Why couldn't Nora prostitute herself?
ANSWER: Would that prove that she was carrying the burden
and responsibility of the household? That she's equal with
man? That there should be no doll's house? Would it?
QUESTION: HOW should I know?
ANSWER: If you don't know, the argument is over.

8. Pivotal Character
The pivotal character is the protagonist. According to
Webster's dictionary, the protagonist is—"one who takes the
lead in any movement or cause."
Anyone who opposes the protagonist is an opponent or
antagonist.

Without a pivotal character there is no play. The pivotal

character is the one who creates conflict and makes the play
move forward. The pivotal character knows what he wants.
Without him the story flounders . . . in fact, there is no
story.
In Othello, Iago (the pivotal character) is a man of action.
Slighted by Othello, he revenges himself by sowing dissension
and jealousy. He started the conflict.
In A Doll's House, Krogstad's insistence on rehabilitating
his family almost drove Nora to suicide. He is the pivotal char-
acter.
In TartuQe, Orgon's insistence to force Tartuffe on his fam-
ily started the conflict.
A pivotal character must not merely desire something. He
must want it so badly that he will destroy or be destroyed in
the effort to attain his goal.
PIVOTAL CHARACTER 107

You might say: "Suppose Othello had given Iago the office
he so passionately coveted?"
In that case there would not have been a play.
There must always be something a person wants more than
anything else in life if he is to be a good pivotal character;
revenge, honor, ambition, etc.
A good pivotal character must have something very vital
at stake.
Not everyone can be a pivotal character.
A man whose fear is greater than his desire, or a man who
has no great, all-consuming passion, or one who has patience
and does not oppose, cannot be a pivotal character.
By the way, there are two types of patience; positive and
negative.
Hamlet had no patience to endure (negative), but he did
have patience to persevere (positive). Jeeter Lester, in To-
bacco Road, had the kind of patience that made you marvel
at human endurance. The patience of a martyr, despite tor-
ture, is a powerful force that we can use in a play or in any
other type of writing.
There is a positive kind of patience which is relentless,
death defying. Then there is a negative patience which has
no resilience, no inner strength to endure hardship.
A pivotal character is necessarily aggressive, uncompromis-
ing, even ruthless.
Even though Jeeter Lester appears to be a "negative" char-
acter, he is nevertheless as provocative as the "aggressive"
Iago. Both of them are pivotal characters.
We might as well clarify just what we mean when we say
"negative" and "positive" (aggressive) pivotal characters.
Everybody understands what an aggressive character is, but
we must explain the "negative" one. To withstand hunger,
torture, physical and mental suffering for an ideal, whether
real or fancied, is strength in Homeric proportions. This neg-
ative strength is really aggressive in the sense that it provokes
108 CHARACTER

counter-action. Hamlet's snooping, Jeeter Lester's maddening

insistence to stay on his land and actually die from sheer
hunger, are actions which certainly provoke counter-action.
So a negative force, if it is enduring, becomes a positive force.
Either one of these forces is good for any type of writing.
Once more, a pivotal character is necessarily aggressive,
uncompromising, even ruthless, whether he is the "negative"
or "positive" type.
A pivotal character is a driving force, not because he de-
cided to be one. He becomes what he is for the simple reason
that some inner or outer necessity forces him to act; there is
something at stake for him, honor, health, money, protection,
vengeance, or a mighty passion.
Oedipus, in Oedipus Rex, insists upon finding the King's
murderer. He is the pivotal character and his aggressiveness
is motivated by Apollo's threat to punish his Kingdom with
pestilence if he doesn't find the murderer. It is the happiness
of his people which forces him to become a pivotal character.
The six soldiers in Bury the Dead, refuse to be buried, not
because of themselves, but because of the great injustice be-
fallen on the majority of the working people. They refuse to
be buried for the sake of mankind.
Krogstad in A Doll's House, is relentless for the sake of his
children whom he wants to rehabilitate.
Hamlet ferrets out his father's murderers not to justify him-
self, but to bring the guilty to justice.
As we see, a pivotal character never becomes a pivotal char-
acter because he wants to. He is really forced by circumstances
within him and outside of him to become what he is.
The growth of a pivotal character cannot be as extensive
as that of the other characters. For instance, the other charac-
ters might go from hate to love or from love to hate, but not
the pivotal character, because when your play starts the piv-
otal character is already suspicious or planning to kill. From
suspicion to the discovery of unfaithfulness is a much shorter
PIVOTAL CHARACTER 109

road than from absolute faith to the discovery of unfaithful-

ness. Therefore, if it would take the average character ten
steps to go from love to hate, the pivotal character would only
travel the last four, three, two or even just one step.
Hamlet starts with a certainty (his father's ghost tells him
about the murder), and he ends with murder. Lavinia in
Mourning Becomes Electra, starts with hatred, plots for re-
venge, and ends in desolation.
Macbeth starts with coveting the King's throne, and ends
in murder and death.
The transition between blind obedience and open revolt
is much greater than that between an oppressor's anger and his
vengeance against a rebellious peon. Yet there is transition in
both cases.
Romeo and Juliet experience hate, love, hope, despair, and
death, while their parents, the pivotal chaiacters, experience
only hate and regret.
When we say that poverty encourages crime, we are not
attacking an abstraction but the social forces which make
poverty possible. These forces are ruthless, and their ruthless-
ness is represented by a man. In a play we attack the man and
through him, the social forces which make him what he is.
This representative cannot relent: the forces behind him back
him up. And if he does weaken, you know he was a poor choice
of character and another representative was needed who could
faithfully serve the forces behind him.
The pivotal character can match the emotional intensity
of his adversaries, but he has a smaller compass of develop-
ment.

QUESTION: A few things still puzzle me about growth. In the

movie Juarez, for instance, every character goes through
a transition: Maximilian from vacillation to determina-
tion; Carlotta from love to madness; Diaz from faith in
his cause to vacillation. Only Juarez did not grow; yet his
110 CHARACTER

stolidity, his unwavering faith, make him a monumental

figure. What was wrong? Why didn't he grow?
ANSWER: He does grow, constantly, but not as obviously as the
others. He is the pivotal character, whose strength, deter-
mination and leadership are responsible for the conflict.
We shall come back to this and see why his central position
makes his growth less apparent. But first let us show you
that he does grow. He warns Maximilian—and then carries
out his threat. Growth. When he finds that his forces cannot
stand against the French, he changes tactics, disbands his
army. Growth. We see him in transition. We know why he
changes his mind when we hear the shepherd boy describe
how his dogs unite to fight a wolf. We see how Juarez
handles treachery and faces his enemies in their own camp.
The scene in which he walks through a firing squad shows
him in actual conflict and confirms our belief that he is a
very brave man.
His depth of love for his people is proved by his relent-
lessness toward Maximilian. Through the constant exposi-
tion of his character we learn that his motivation is honest
and unselfish.
An imperceptible transition is revealed on the surface
when he murmurs, "Forgive me," over Maximilian's coffin.
His love is revealed conclusively and we know that his
cruelty was not directed against Maximilian, but against
Imperialism.
QUESTION: Then his growth is from resistance to stronger re-
sistance, instead of from hate to forgiveness. I see. Why
wasn't it necessary for Juarez' change to be as great as Max-
imilian's?
ANSWER: Juarez is the pivotal character. Remember, the
growth of the pivotal character is much less than that of the
other characters for the simple reason that he has reached
a decision before the story starts. He is the one who forces
the others to grow. Juarez' strength is the strength of the
PIVOTAL CHARACTER

masses who are willing to fight and die for their liberty.
He is not alone. He is not fighting because he wants to
fight. Necessity forces a liberty loving person to try to de-
stroy his oppressor or die, rather than submit to slavery.
If a pivotal character has no inner or outer necessity to
fight, except his own caprice as a motive, there is the danger
that any minute he might stop being a driving force, thus
betraying the premise, and with it, the play.
QUESTION: What about the people who want to write, act, sing,
paint? Would you call this inner urge for self-expression a
caprice?
ANSWER: With ninety-nine per cent of them it might be a ca-
price.
QUESTION: Why ninety-nine per cent?
ANSWER: Because ninety-nine per cent usually give up before
they have a chance to achieve anything. They have no per-
severence, no stamina, no physical or mental strength. Al-
though there are people who have both physical and mental
strength, the inner urge to create is not strong enough.
QUESTION: IS it possible for an element like cold, heat, fire,
water, to be a pivotal character?
ANSWER: NO. These elements were the absolute rulers on
earth when man ambled along from the darkness of his
primitive existence. It was the eternal status quo, a state of
affairs which had existed unquestioned, unchallenged, for
billions of years. The protozoa, pleuroccocus, bacteria,
amoeba, did nothing to counteract the existing order. Man
did. Man started the conflict. Man became the pivotal char-
acter in the drama of existence. He has not only harnessed
the elements but is on the verge of conquering disease with
the new drugs which are constantly being discovered.
Man's aggressiveness against the elements is not depend-
ent upon a whim. It arises out of dire necessity and is im-
plemented by intelligence. This necessity and intelligence
forced him to split the atom and create that frightfully
112 CHARACTER

destructive force, atomic energy; but if he is to survive,

this very frightfulness will force him again to use it for the
elevation of mankind instead of for destruction. He'll do
this not from nobility, but because dire "necessity" will
force his hand again.
Once more: a pivotal character is forced to be a pivotal
character out of sheer necessity, and not because he wills it.
THE ANTAGONIST 113

9. The Antagonist
Anyone who opposes a pivotal character necessarily be-
comes the opponent or antagonist. The antagonist is the one
who holds back the ruthlessly onrushing protagonist. He is
the one against whom the ruthless character exerts all his
strength, all his cunning, all the resources of his inventive
power.
If for any good reason the antagonist cannot put up a pro-
tracted fight, you might as well look for another character
who will.
The antagonist in any play is necessarily as strong and, in
time, as ruthless as the pivotal character. A fight is interesting
only if the fighters are evenly matched. Helmer, in Doll's
House, is the antagonist against Krogstad. The protagonist
and the antagonist must be dangerous foes to each other. Both
of them are ruthless. The mother in The Silver Cord finds a
worthy opponent in the women her sons brought home. Iago,
in Othello, is the ruthless, conniving protagonist. Othello is
the antagonist. Othello's authority and power are so great
that Iago cannot show his hand openly—but he courts great
danger anyway, nay, his very life is in danger. Othello, then,
is a worthy antagonist. The same is the case in Hamlet.
Let me now repeat it again: the antagonist must be as strong
as the protagonist. The wills of conflicting personalities must
clash.
If a big brute manhandles a little fellow, we turn against
him, but this does not mean that we shall wait with bated
breath to see the outcome of this uneven encounter. We know
it beforehand.
A novel, play, or any type of writing, really is a crisis from
beginning to end growing to its necessary conclusion.
114 CHARACTER

10. Orchestration
When you are ready to select characters for your play, be
careful to orchestrate them right. If all the characters are
the same type—for instance, if all of them are bullies—it will
be like an orchestra of nothing but drums.
In King Lear, Cordelia is gentle, loving, faithful; Goneril
and Regan, the older daughters, are cold, heartless, and de-
ceitful plotters. The King himself is rash, headstrong, and
given to unreasoning anger.
Good orchestration is one of the reasons for rising conflict
in any play.
It is possible to choose two liars, two prostitutes, two thieves,
for one play, but necessarily they will be different in temper,
philosophy, and speech. One thief might be considerate, the
other ruthless; one could be a coward, the other fearless; one
might respect womanhood, the other might despise women.
If both have the same temperament, the same outlook on life,
there will be no conflict—and no play.
When Ibsen selected Nora and Helmer for A Doll's House,
it was inevitable that he should choose a married couple, since
the premise dealt with married life. This phase of selection is
obvious to everyone.
The difficulty starts when the dramatist chooses people
of the same type and tries to generate conflict between
them.
ORCHESTRATION 115

We are thinking of Maltz' Black Pit, in which Joe and Iola are
very much alike. They are both loving and considerate. They
have the same ideals and desires and fears. No wonder, then,
that Joe makes his fatal decision almost without conflict.
Nora and Helmer love each other, too. But Helmer is dom-
ineering where Nora is obedient, scrupulously accurate and
truthful where Nora lies and cheats as a child would. Helmer
is responsible for everything he does; Nora is careless. Nora
is everything Helmer is not; they are perfectly orchestrated.
Suppose that Helmer had been married to Mrs. Linde. She
is mentally mature, aware of Helmer's world and standards.
She and Helmer might have quarreled, but they would never
have created the great conflict which comes of the contrast
between Nora and Helmer. A woman like Mrs. Linde would
scarcely have committed the forgery, but if she had done so,
she would have been aware of the seriousness of her deed.
Just as Mrs. Linde is different from Nora, Krogstad is differ-
ent from Helmer. And Dr. Rank is different from all of them.
Together, these contrasting characters are instruments which
work together to give a well-orchestrated composition.
Orchestration demands well-defined and uncompromising
characters in opposition, moving from one pole toward an-
other through conflict. When we say "uncompromising," we
think of Hamlet, who goes after his objective—to ferret out
his father's murderer—as a bloodhound follows his quarry.
We think of Helmer, whose rigid principle of civic pride
causes the drama. We think of Orgon, in Tartuffe, who in his
religious fanaticism deeds his fortune to a villain and willingly
exposes his young wife to his advances.
Whenever you see a play, try to find out how the forces are
lined up. The forces may be groups, as well as individuals;
Fascism vs. democracy, freedom vs. slavery, religion vs. athe-
ism. Not all religious persons who fight atheism are the same.
The divergencies between their characters can be as wide as
between heaven and purgatory.
116 CHARACTER

In Dinner at Eight, Kitty and Packard are well orchestrated.

Although Kitty resembles Packard in many ways, a world sepa-
rates them. They both wish to be accepted in high society, but
Packard wishes to reach the top in politics. Kitty abhors pol-
itics and Washington. She has nothing to do; he has no mo-
ment for relaxation. She lies in bed awaiting her lover; he
rushes from place to place to do business. Between such char-
acters there are endless possibilities for conflict.
In every big movement there are smaller movements. Let
us suppose that the big movement in a play is from love to
hate. What are the smaller movements within it? Tolerance
to intolerance is one, and it can be broken down into indiffer-
ence to annoyance. Now, whichever movement you choose
for your play will affect the orchestration of your characters.
Characters orchestrated for the love-to-hate movement would
be far too violent for the smaller movement from indifference
to annoyance. Chekhov's characters fit the movements he
chose for his plays.
Kitty and Packard, for instance, would never do for The
Cherry Orchard, and The Cherry Orchard characters would
never get to first base in King Lear. Your characters should be
as contrasted as the movement you are using will permit.
Fine plays can be written on the smaller movements, but even
on this smaller scale the conflict must be sharp, as the plays
of Chekhov indicate.
When someone says, "It is a rainy day," we really don't
know what kind of rain he refers to. It can be:

drizzle (fine drops)

rain (steady fall)
downpour (heavy rain)
storm (rain plus disturbed atmosphere).
Similarly, someone might remark, "So-and-so is a bad person."
We haven't the slightest idea what that "bad" means. Is he:
ORCHESTRATION 117

unreliable
untrustworthy
a liar
a thief
a racketeer
a rapist
a killer?
We have to know exactly in what category every character
belongs. As the author, you have to know every character's
exact status, because you will orchestrate him with his qp-
posites. Different orchestration is necessary for different move-
ments. But there must be orchestration—well-defined, strong,
uncompromising characters in conflict commensurate to the
movement of the play.
If, for instance, the movement was
from
indifference
to
boredom
to
impatience
to
irritation
to
annoyance
to
anger
your characters could not be black and white. They would
be light gray against dark gray, perhaps—but they would be
orchestrated.
If your characters are correctly orchestrated, as are those
in A Doll's House or Tartuffe or Hamlet, their speech will
necessarily be contrasted also. For instance, if one of your
characters is virginal and the other a rake, their dialogue will
Il8 CHARACTER

reflect their respective natures. The first has no experience,

and her ideas will be naive. Casanova, in contrast, has had a
wealth of experience, which will be reflected in everything he
says. Any meeting between the two is sure to reveal the knowl-
edge of one, the ignorance of the other. If you are faithful to
your tridimensional character outlines, your characters will
be faithful to themselves in speech and manner, and you need
have no fear about contrast. If you bring a professor of Eng-
lish face to face with a man who never utters a sentence with-
out mangling it, you'll have all the contrast you need without
going out of your way to find it. If these two characters hap-
pen to be in conflict, trying to prove the premise of a play, the
conflict will be more colorful and exciting because of the con-
trast in speech. Contrast must be inherent in character.
Conflict is sustained through growth. The naive virgin may
become wiser. She may teach a lesson, in marriage, to Casa-
nova, who becomes unsure of himself. The professor may be-
come careless with his speech, while the other man turns into
an eloquent speaker. Remember what growth did to Eliza
in Shaw's Pygmalion. A thief may become honest—and an
honest man may turn thief. The philanderer learns to be
faithful, the faithful wife turns to philandering. The unor-
ganized worker becomes strong through organization. These
are bold outlines, of course. There are infinite variations of
growth possible for any character—but growth there must be.
Without growth you'll lose whatever contrast you had at the
beginning of the play. The absence of growth signals the lack
of conflict; and the lack of conflict indicates that your charac-
ters were not well orchestrated.

ii. Unity of Opposites

Even assuming a play is well orchestrated, what assurance
have we that the antagonists won't make a truce in the middle
UNITY OF OPPOSITES 119

and call it quits? The answer to this question is to be found

in the "unity of opposites." It is a phrase that many people
apply wrongly or misunderstand in the first place. Unity of
opposites does not refer to any opposing forces or wills in a
clash. Misapplication of this unity leads to a condition in
which the characters cannot carry a conflict through to the
finish. Our first insurance against this catastrophe is to define
our terms—what is the unity of opposites?
If a man in a crowd is pushed by a stranger, and, after some
insulting remarks on both sides, hits him, will the resulting
fight be the result of a unity of opposites?
Only superficially, not fundamentally. The men have a
desire to fight. Their egos have been slighted, they want
physical revenge, but the difference between them is not so
deep-rooted that only an injury or death would straighten it
out. These are antagonists who might quit in the middle of a
play. They might rationalize, explain, apologize, and shake
hands. The real unity of opposites is one in which compromise
is impossible.
We must go to nature again for an example before we ap-
ply the rule to human beings. Can anyone imagine a com-
promise between a deadly disease germ and the white cor-
puscles in a human body? It will be a fight to the finish, be-
cause the opposites are so constituted that they must destroy
each other to live. There is no choice. A germ cannot say:
"Oh, well, this white corpuscle is too tough for me. I'll find
another place to live." Nor can the corpuscle let the germ
alone, without sacrificing itself. They are opposites, united
to destroy each other.
Now let's apply this same principle to the theater. Nora and
Helmer were united by many things: love, home, children,
law, society, desire. Yet they were opposites. It was necessary
for their individual characters that this unity should be
broken, or that one of them should succumb completely to
the other—thus killing his individuality.
120 CHARACTER

Like the germ and the corpuscle, the unity could be broken
and the play ended only by the "death" of some dominant
quality in one of the characters—Nora's docility, in the play.
Naturally, death in the theater need not apply to the death of
a human being. The severing of the unity between Nora and
Helmer was a very painful thing, not at all easy. The closer
the unity, the more difficult the breaking. And this unity, de-
spite the qualitative change that has taken place in it, still af-
fects the characters it has bound. In Idiot's Delight, the char-
acters had nothing to bind them to each other. If one person
was disagreeable he could leave.
In Journey's End, on the other hand, the ironclad unity of
the soldiers was established beyond doubt. We were convinced
that they had to stay in the trenches, perhaps die there, al-
though they wished to be thousands of miles away. Some
drank to keep up the courage that would enable them to do
what was expected of them. Let us analyze their situation.
These men lived in a society in which certain contradictions
culminated in war. The men did not wish to fight, having no
interests to safeguard, but they were sent to kill because they
were subject to the desires of those who decided to solve their
economic problem with war. Moreover, these young men had
been taught since childhood that to die for one's country is
heroic. They are torn between conflicting emotions: to escape
and live will mean being stamped as a coward and despised;
to stay will mean distinction—and death. Between these de-
sires lies drama. The play is a good example of the unity of
opposites.
In nature nothing is ever "destroyed" or "dead." It is trans-
formed into another shape, substance, or element. Nora's love
for Helmer was transformed into liberation and thirst for
more knowledge. His smugness was transformed into a search
for the truth about himself and his relation to society. A lost
equilibrium tries to find a new equilibrium for itself.
Take the case of Jack the Ripper. This man, who killed so
 UNITY OF OPPOSITES 121

indiscriminately, was never caught by the police, because his

motivation was obscure. He seemed to have no relationship,
no unity with his victims. No rancor, no anger, no jealousy,
no revenge was connected with his acts. He and his victim
represented opposites without unity. The motivation was
missing. This same lack of motivation explains why so many
bad crime plays are written. Theft, or murder, for money so
that one can show off before a woman is never a real motiva-
tion. It is superficial. We do not see the irresistible force be-
hind the crime. Criminals are people whose backgrounds have
thwarted them, making crime necessary in the absence of more
normal action. // we are given the opportunity of seeing how
a murderer is forced by necessity, environment, and inner
and outer contradictions to commit a crime, we are witness-
ing the unity of opposites in action. Proper motivation estab-
lishes unity between the opposites.

A pimp asks more money from a prostitute. Shall she give

it to him? She has to. She has a sick husband whom she adores.
[ If she refuses the pimp, he might give her secret away.
You insult your friend. He is angry and leaves, never to re-
turn. But if he lent you ten thousand dollars, can he leave so
easily, never to return?
Your daughter falls in love with a man whom you abhor.
Can she leave your home? Of course she can. But will she, if
she expected you to put her future husband into business
with your backing?
You are in partnership with your father-in-law. You don't
like the old man's way of doing business. Can you dissolve this
union? We don't see any reason why not. The only trouble
is that the old man holds a check you have forged, and he can
turn you into prison at his pleasure.
You are living with your stepfather. You hate him and still
insist on staying in his house. Why? You have a horrible sus-
' picion that he killed your father, and you stay to prove it.
122 CHARACTER

You divided your fortune between your children, and in

return you ask only one room in their spacious house. Later
they become disagreeable, even insulting. Can you pack up
and leave them, when you have no means left to support
yourself?
(The last two examples may seem familiar. They should be,
since they are Hamlet and King Lear again.)
Fascism and democracy in a death grip are a perfect unity
of opposites. One has to be destroyed so that the other may
live. Here are still others:
science—superstition
religion—atheism
capitalism—communism
We could go on endlessly, citing unities of opposites in
which the characters are so bound to each other that com-
promise is impossible. Of course, the characters have to be
made of such stuff that they will go the limit. The unity be-
tween opposites must be so strong that the deadlock can be
broken only if one of the adversaries or both are exhausted,
beaten, or annihilated completely at the end.
If King Lear's daughters had understood the King's plight,
there would have been no drama. If Helmer could have seen
the motivation of Nora's forgery, that it was done for him,
A Doll's House would never have been written. If a warring
country's government could only fathom the abysmal fear of
the soldiers, they might let them go home and stop the war,
but can they let them do such a thing? Of course not. King
Lear's daughters are unrelenting because it is in their nature
and because they have set their hearts on a goal. Governments
are at war because inner contradictions force them on the road
to destruction.
Here is a synopsis for a skit which establishes the unity of
opposites as the story goes along:
It is a brisk winter evening, and you are going home from
work. A little dog attaches himself to you. You say, "Nice
UNITY OF OPPOSITES 123

doggie," and since there is no unity between you two, you go

on, forgetting about the dog. At the door you see that he is
still there. He adopted you, so to speak. But you want no
part of him, and say, "Go away, doggie, go away."
You go up, eat supper with your wife, read, listen to the
radio, and go to bed. Next morning, with a shock, you see
that the dog is still there, waiting hopefully for you, wagging
his tail.
"What persistence!" you say, and pity him. You go to the
subway, the dog trailing behind. You lose him at the entrance,
and a few minutes later you forget him. But in the evening,
coming home, just when you are about to go into your house,
you stumble over him again. Apparently he was waiting, and
greets you as a long-lost friend. He is freezing and emaciated
by now, but happy and hopeful that you will take him in. You
will, if your heart is in the right place. You don't want a dog,
but this maddening persistence from a dumb animal wears
you down. He wants you, he loves you, and it seems he is will-
ing to die at your doorstep rather than give you up.
You take him upstairs. With his stubbornness, he has estab-
lished a unity of opposites between you two.
But your wife is outraged. She wants no part of the dog.
You defend your act, but to no avail. She is adamant. She says,
"The dog or me—choose," so you give in. After feeding your
little friend, you tell your wife "You take him out—I haven't
the heart." She puts him out with alacrity, but afterwards
feels a little sad as she remembers the sniveling animal out in
the cold.
She starts to have misgivings. She is angry that she is forced
to be heartless, but after all, she never wanted a dog, and
she doesn't want one now.
The evening is ruined. You look at your wife with a strange,
hostile eye, as if you saw her for the first time in her true colors.
In the morning you meet the dog again, but now you are
really angry. He caused the first real breach between you and
124 CHARACTER

your wife. You try to chase the darned animal away, but the
dog refuses to be chased. He escorts you to the subway again,
but now you are sure that you will stumble into him when
you come back in the evening.
All day long you think of the dog and your wife. He is
frozen to death by now, you think. You decide you have to
do something about it, and can hardly wait to go home.
When you arrive home, there is no dog, and instead of go-
ing home, you start to look for him. But there is no sign of
the animal. You are terribly disappointed. You wanted to
bring him up again into your house and defy your wife. If
she wants to leave you on account of the dog, let her—she
never loved you, anyway.
You go up, bitterness in your heart, and you are confronted
with the strangest spectacle you ever saw. You see the little
stray dog sitting on your best armchair, washed, combed; and
before him kneels your wife, talking baby talk to him.
The dog is the pivotal character in this case. His determina-
tion changed two human beings. One equilibrium was lost,
but another was found. Even if your wife would not have
taken the dog in, the old relationship would have been broken
just the same.
The real unity of opposites can be broken only if a trait
or dominant quality in one or more characters is fundamen-
tally changed. In a real unity of opposites, compromise is im-
possible.
After you have found your premise, you had better find
out immediately—testing if necessary—whether the char-
acters have the unity of opposites between them. If they do
not have this strong, unbreakable bond between them, your
conflict will never rise to a climax.
 Ill

CONFLICT

1. Origin of Action
T H E blowing of the wind is action, even if it is only a breeze.
And rain is action, even to its name. The verb and the noun
are one.
Our ancestor, the cave man, killed that he might eat—
that was certainly action.
The walking of a man is action, the flight of a bird, the
burning of a house, the reading of a book. Every manifesta-
tion of life is "action."
Can we, then, treat action as an independent phenomenon?
Let's look at wind. What we call wind is the mass contrac-
tion and expansion of the invisible ocean of air which sur-
rounds us. Cold and heat create this movement called "wind."
It is the result of varied contributing factors which make ac-
tion possible. Wind, inactive, alone, is impossible.
Rain is the product of the sun and other factors. Without
them there would be no rain.
The cave man killed. Killing is an action, but behind it
there is a man who lives under conditions which force him to
kill: for food, self-defense, or glory. Killing, although an
"action," is only the result of important factors.
There is no action under the sun which is the origin and
the result in one. Everything results from something else;
action cannot come of itself.
Let us look further for the origin of action.
126 CONFLICT

Motion, we know, is equivalent to action. Where does mo-

tion come from? We are told that motion is matter, and mat-
ter energy, but since energy is generally recognized as motion,
we're back where we started.
Let us take a concrete example: the protozoon. This one-
celled creature is active. It eats and digests by absorption; it
moves. It performs the necessary life activities, and they are,
obviously, the outgrowth of something specific: the protozoon.
Is the action of the protozoon inherent or acquired? We find
that the chemical composition of the animal includes oxygen,
hydrogen, phosphorus, iron, calcium. These are all complex
elements—each highly active in its composition. It seems,
then, that the protozoon inherited "action," with its other
characteristics, from its multiple parents.
We had best halt our search right here, before it entangles
us in the solar system. We cannot find action in a pure, iso-
lated form, although it is always present as the result of other
conditions. It is safe to say, we conclude, that action is not
more important than the contributing factors which give rise
to it.

2. Cause and Effect

In this chapter we shall divide conflict into four major di-

visions: the first will be "static," the second "jumping," the
third "slowly rising," and the fourth "foreshadowing." We
shall examine these different conflicts to see why one is static,
and remains static regardless of what you do, why the second
jumps, defying reality and common sense, why the third, the
slowly rising, grows naturally without obvious effort from the
playwright, and why without foreshadowing conflict no play
can exist.
But first let us trace a conflict and see how it comes into
being.
CAUSE AND EFFECT 127

Assume that you are a gentle, inoffensive young man. You

have never hurt anyone, nor have you any intention of break-
ing laws in the future. You are single, and you meet a girl who
pleases you at a party to which you had not meant to go. You
like her smile, the tone of her voice, her dress. Her tastes and
yours coincide. In short, this seems to be the beginning of a
deep-rooted love.
With great trepidation you invite her to see a show with
you. She accepts. There is nothing wrong in this, nothing un-
usual, and yet it may be a turning point in your life.
At home you look over your wardrobe, which consists of
the single suit you wear on all gala occasions. Under your
critical eyes it sheds all the requirements you think necessary
for such a suit. For one thing, you decide it is out of style;
for another, it looks cheap and shabby. She is not blind; she
is sure to notice.
You decide that you must have a new suit. But how? There
is no money. What you earn you hand over to your mother,
who keeps house for you and your two small sisters. Your fa-
ther is dead, and your salary must take care of all the family
expenses, the shoes for the children, the doctor bills for your
mother. The rent is due. . . . No, you cannot buy a suit.
For the first time, you feel old. You remember that you are
over twenty-five, that it will be years before either of your
sisters is old enough to work. What's the use of planning—of
living—of taking your girl to the theater. Nothing can come
of it, anyway. So, you drop her.
This step makes you cross at home, listless at business. You
may brood over your condition; you will be despondent. You
cannot stop thinking of the girl, of what she must think of you,
of whether you dare call her up, of the impossibility of your
ever seeing her again. You are negligent at the office, and be-
fore you realize it, you are out of a job. This does not improve
your temper. You go on a frantic job hunt and find nothing.
You apply for relief—and get it, after a harrowing, long-
128 CONFLICT

drawn-out, shameful experience. You feel as useless as a

squeezed lemon. After you get on relief you discover that you
receive too little to sustain life well, but just enough to keep
you from dying of hunger.
As you see, this conflict, and almost all conflict, can be
traced to the environment, the social conditions of the in-
dividual.
Now the question is of what material you are made. How
determined are you? How much stamina have you? What
amount of suffering can you endure? What was your hope
for the future? How farseeing are you? Have you imagina-
tion? Have you the ability to plan a long-range program for
yourself? Are you physically able to carry out any program
you may plan?
If you are sufficiently aroused, you will make a decision.
And this decision will set in motion forces to thwart itself,
foreshadowing a counteraction which will oppose you. You
may never be aware of the process, but the playwright must
be. You never knew, when you invited this girl to the theater,
that you had started a long chain of events which would cul-
minate in your desperate decision to take action now. If you
are strong enough, conflict is born, the result of a long, evo-
lutionary process which might have begun with an everyday
occurrence—an invitation, perhaps.

If the young man makes a decision, but lacks the strength

to carry it through, or if he is a coward, the play will be static,
moving very slowly, and then on an even plane. The author
would do best to leave such a character alone. He is not yet
ripe enough to carry on a protracted conflict. If the dramatist
has vision, he may be able to visualize this character at the
psychological moment—the point of attack—when the weak-
ling or coward is not only able to face a battle, but can meet
his adversary more than halfway. This will be discussed fur-
ther under "Point of Attack."

J
CAUSE AND EFFECT 129

A jumping conflict would occur if the young man decided,

upon seeing the shabbiness of his suit, to rob a bank, or
hold up a passer-by. It is illogical that an inoffensive boy
would arrive at such a conclusion so rapidly. There would
have to be more crushing events, each more urgent and pain-
ful than the one before, to force him to take this fatal step.
It is possible that at a moment of frustration and despair a
man will do the unexpected in real life—but never in the
theater. There we wish to see the natural sequence, the step-
by-step development of a character. We want to see how the
cloak of decency, high moral standards, is torn away from a
character shred by shred by the forces emanating from him
and from his surroundings.
Every rising conflict should be foreshadowed first by the
determined forces lined up against each other. We shall make
this clearer as we go along, but there is one thing we wish to
emphasize here: all the conflicts within the big, major conflict
will be crystallized in the premise of the play. The small con-
flicts, which we call "transition," lead the character from one
state of mind to another, until he is compelled to make a de-
cision. (See "Transition.") Through these transitions, or small
conflicts, the character will grow in a slow, even tempo.

In another chapter we have discussed the complexity of

the word "happiness." Take away a small fraction of any part,
and you see how the whole structure of "happiness" loses its
unity and undergoes a radical change, which, in the process
of reshifting, may turn "happiness" into "unhappiness." This
law governs infinitesimal cells, humans, and the solar system.
Dr. Milislaw Demerec read a paper on Heredity before the
annual meeting of the American Association for the Advance-
ment of Science, in Richmond, Virginia, on December 30,
1938. He wrote:
The balance within a gene system is so sensitive that the absence
of even one gene out of a total of several thousand may upset it to
130 CONFLICT

such an extent that this system is not able to function and the
organism does not survive. Moreover, numerous cases of inter-
action between genes are on record where a change in one gene
affects the functioning of another seemingly unrelated gene. Con-
sidering all the evidence, it seems apparent that the activity of a
gene is determined by three internal factors: (1) the chemical con-
stitution of the gene itself, (2) the genetic constitution of the gene
system in which it acts, and (3) by the position of the gene in the
gene system. These three internal factors, together with the exter-
nal factors forming the environment, determine the phenotype (to-
tality of inheritable characteristics) of the organism.
A gene, therefore, should be considered as a unit part of a well-
organized system and a chromosome a higher step in that organiza-
tion. In that sense genes as individual units with fixed properties
do not exist, but their existence as component units of a larger
system, with properties partially determined by that system, cannot
be denied.
Just as a gene is a unit, but part of a well-organized society
of genes, a human being is a unit, part of a well-organized
society of human beings. Whatever change comes over the
society will affect him; whatever happens to him will affect
the society.
You can find conflict all around you. Watch the members
of your family, your friends, your relatives, your acquaint-
ances, your business associates, and see if you can discover
one of the following traits: affection, abusiveness, arrogance,
avarice, accuracy, awkwardness, brazenness, bragging, crafti-
ness, confusion, cunning, conceit, contemptuousness, clever-
ness, clumsiness, curiosity, cowardice, cruelty, dignity, dis-
honesty, dissipation, envy, eagerness, egotism, extravagance,
fickleness, fidelity, frugality, gaiety, garrulity, gallantry, gen-
erosity, honesty, hesitance, hysteria, heedlessness, ill-temper,
idealism, impulsiveness, indolence, impotence, impudence,
kindness, loyalty, lucidity, morbidity, maliciousness, mys-
ticism, modesty, obstinacy, prudishness, placidity, patience,
CAUSE AND EFFECT 131

pretentiousness, passion, restlessness, submission, sarcasm,

simplicity, skepticism, savagery, solemnity, suspicion, stoi-
cism, secretiveness, sensitivity, snobbery, treachery, tender-
ness, untidyness, versatility, vindictiveness, vulgarity, zeal-
ousness.
Any of these, and thousands of other traits, can be the soil
from which a conflict springs. Let a skeptic oppose a militant
believer and you have a conflict.
Cold and heat create conflict: thunder and lightning. Bring
opposites face to face and conflict is inevitable. Let each of
these adjectives represent a man, and imagine the possible
conflicts when they meet:
frugal—spendthrift
moral—immoral
dirty—immaculate
optimistic—pessimistic
gentle—ruthless
faithful—fickle
clever—stupid
calm—violent
cheerful—morbid
healthy—hypochondriac
humorous—humorless
sensitive—insensitive
dainty—vulgar
naive—worldly
brave—cowardly.

When our cave-man ancestor went after food, he fought

with a tangible enemy: a huge beast which meant food—a
conflict. He threw his life into the balance, and the fight was
to the death. This was rising conflict: conflict, crisis, con-
clusion.
A football game represents conflict. The teams are evenly
132 CONFLICT

matched—two strong groups face each other. (See "Orches-

tration.") But since victory is the goal, the fight will be bitter
and hard won.
Boxing is conflict. All competitive sports are conflict. A
saloon brawl is conflict. A fight for supremacy among men
or nations is conflict. Every manifestation of life, from birth
to death, is conflict.
There are more complex forms of conflict, but they all rise
on this simple basis: attack and counterattack. We see real,
rising conflict when the antagonists are evenly matched. There
is no thrill in watching a strong, skillful man fighting a sickly,
awkward one. When two people are evenly matched, whether
in the prize ring or on the stage, each is forced to utilize all
that is in him. Each will reveal how much he knows about
generalship; how his mind works in an emergency; what kind
of defense he is capable of; how strong he really is; whether
he has any reserve to marshal as a defense when he's in dan-
ger. Attack, counterattack; conflict.
If we try to isolate and examine conflict as an independent
phenomenon, we are in danger of being led up a blind alley.
There is nothing in existence which is out of touch with its
surroundings or the social order in which it exists. Nothing
lives for its own sake; everything is supplementary to every
other thing.
The germ of conflict can be traced in anything, anywhere.
Not everyone knows the answer when he is asked to name
his ambition in life. Yet he has one, no matter how humble,
perhaps for that very day, week, or month. And out of that
small, seemingly inconsequential ambition, a rising conflict
may grow. The conflict may become increasingly serious,
reach a crisis, then come to a climax, and the individual is
forced to make a decision which will alter his life consid-
erably.
Nature has an elaborate system of distributing the seeds of
CAUSE AND EFFECT 133

various plants. If every single seed were given a chance to

develop in its year, mankind would be choked out of exist-
ence—and the plants as well.
Every human being has an ambition of some sort, depend-
ing on the character of the individual. If a hundred people
have similar ambitions, the odds are that only one of them
will have the perfect combination of circumstances, in him-
self and in the world about him, which will permit him to
achieve his goal. We are thus brought back to character, to
the reason why one will persist and another will not.
There is no doubt that conflict grows out of character. The
intensity of the conflict will be determined by the strength
of will of the three-dimensional individual who is the pro-
tagonist.
A seed may fall at any given point—but it will not neces-
sarily germinate. And ambition may be found anywhere, but
whether or not it germinates will depend upon the physical,
sociological, and psychological condition of the person in
whom it exists.
If ambition were to flourish with the same intensity in
every man, that too would spell mankind's doom.
On the surface, a healthy conflict consists of two forces in
opposition. At bottom, each of these forces is the product of
many complicated circumstances in a chronological sequence,
creating tension so terrific that it must culminate in an ex-
plosion.
Let us witness another example of how conflict comes into
being.
Brass Ankle, a play of the 1930*8, offers a good example of
how conflict is born.
LARRY [the husband, startled]: Ruth and I aren't goin' to keep that
kid, Doctor. You surely don't think we're goin' to keep a nigger
in the family.
134 CONFLICT

DR. WAINWRIGHT: That, of course, is your affair, yours and Ruth's.

After all, he is your son.
LARRY: My son—a nigger!

Larry is the leading citizen of a small town, and he is

fighting to segregate the Negro from the white. He believes
that even a drop of Negro blood makes a man unfit to asso-
ciate with whites, and now his wife, white, has given birth
to a Negro. It is a personal tragedy. If the town gets wind of
it, he will become a laughingstock for life. This is an aggra-
vated conflict. Larry will be forced to make a decision: admit
the child is his own, or deny his fatherhood. But at this mo-
ment we are not interested in what will happen; we wish to
trace the origin of the conflict. We want to know how con-
flicts come into being.
The author says:

Larry is about thirty years of age, tall, straight and good-looking,

with fair hair and high color. His quick nervous gestures indicate
a high-strung and emotional nature.
Before his marriage he was lazy, we dare say. He was pam-
pered by women, and perhaps had many affairs. But there
was one girl, Ruth, John Chaldon's granddaughter, a dark,
compelling beauty, a lady, different from the other women
in the village. She never paid any attention to Larry, but he
wooed her persistently, mended his ways, and at last she gave
in and married him.
Is there any clue thus far which would indicate a conflict
to come? There are many, but they would mean nothing if
the locale happened to be New York. Don't forget the vital
importance of the location—we shall see why, later.
Once more, Larry's physical make-up: good-looking. He
is spoiled, he has a way with women. Otherwise he would
never have married Ruth, and the tragedy would not have oc-
curred.
CAUSE AND EFFECT 135

Now the environment, the particular time of the event.

It is two generations after the Civil War. Liberated Negroes
live in the town, as do mulattoes, and part Negroes who pass
as whites. There are more than a few nice, respectable fam-
ilies, apparently white, who are known to the village doctor
to be Negro. Having brought most of them into the world,
he alone knows who is who. He knows that Ruth has Negro
blood in her, although she has passed for white. As a matter
of fact, she has thought herself white. She has an eight-year-old
daughter who is apparently white. The second child is one
of those rare throwbacks.
That Ruth is good-looking and a lady is also an important
factor in the coming conflict.

LARRY: I always swore I'd marry a lady. I ain't got no kick comin'.

And in another place:

LARRY: . . . and I owe it all to you. I never had any ambition until
I married you.

Larry is now the proprietor of a successful store, thanks to

Ruth's influence.
Their physical qualities attracted them to each other. The
environment made Larry what he was: lazy, arrogant, spoiled;
it also made Ruth dignified, soft-spoken. To him, she was an
ideal; to her, he was a child. Her dignity appealed to him,
since he lacked dignity; his devil-may-care manner appealed
to her, since she lacked ease. His great love assured her that
she could make a man of him.
The environment again: a small town, few young people.
If there had been more girls, Larry might not have married
Ruth. But there weren't many girls—and he is supremely
happy with his wife. He is more and more ambitious, and
the townsfolk want him to be the first mayor of the growing
community.
136 CONFLICT

AGNES [a neighbor]: Lee [her husband] says you've got the case on
the Jackson children all ready for the Superintendent of Educa-
tion. I've had a lot to do with that, you know. If I hadn't kept
after him he never would have stirred himself. I say, if he ex-
pects me to give him children, he's got to see that they can go to
school without havin' to sit by people we all know's got nigger
blood.
LARRY [in a tired voice]: Yes, Agnes, we know you had a lot to do
with it.
This dialogue indicates the town's anti-Negro sentiment
which forces Larry to take an anti-Negro stand, too. It also
shows that he is the leader, and we know he wishes to remain
the leader for the love of Ruth. So he runs and barks with the
pack, aggravating, building, strengthening the coming con-
flict which will crush him.
So it seems that conflict does spring from character after
all, and that if we wish to know the structure of conflict, we
must first know character. But since character is influenced
by environment, we must know that, too. It might seem that
conflict springs spontaneously from one single cause, but this
is not true. A complexity of many reasons makes one soliury
conflict.

5. Static
Characters who cannot make a decision in a play are re-
sponsible for static conflict—or, rather, let us blame the dram-
atist who chooses the characters. You cannot expect a rising
conflict from a man who wants nothing or does not know what
he wants.
Static means not moving, not exerting force of any kind.
Since we intend to go into a detailed analysis of what makes
dramatic action static, we must point out right here that even
the most static conflict has movement of some kind. Nothing
in nature is absolutely static. An inanimate object is full of
STATIC 137

movement which the naked eye cannot see; a dead scene in

a play also contains movement, b u t so slow that it seems to
be standing still.
No dialogue, even the cleverest, can move a play if it does
not further the conflict. Only conflict can generate more con-
flict, and the flrst conflict comes from a conscious will striv-
ing to achieve a goal which was determined by the premise
of the play.
A play can have only one major premise, b u t each char-
acter has his own premise which clashes with the others. Cur-
rents and undercurrents will cross and recross—but all of
them must further the life line, the main premise of the play.
If, for instance, a woman perceives that her life is sterile,
and cries her heart out, pacing her room, but does nothing
about it, she is a static character. T h e dramatist may put the
most haunting lines in her mouth, but she remains impotent
and static. Grief is not enough to create conflict; we need a
will which can consciously do something about the problem.
Here is a good example of static conflict:
HE: DO you love me?
SHE: Oh, I don't know.
HE: Can't you make up your mind?
SHE: I will.
HE: When?
SHE: Oh . . . soon.
HE: HOW soon?
SHE: Oh, I don't know.
HE: May I help?
SHE: That wouldn't be fair, would it?
HE: Everything is fair in love, especially if 1 can convince you
that I am the one man you want.
SHE: HOW would you do that?
HE: First of all I would kiss you—
SHE: Oh, but I won't let you until we are engaged.
HE: If you don't let me kiss you, how on earth are you going to
find out whether you love me or not?
138 CONFLICT

SHE: If I like your company . . .

HE: DO you like my company?
SHE: Oh, I don't know—yet.
HE: That settles the argument.
SHE: HOW?
HE: YOU said—
SHE: Later on I might learn to like your company, though.
HE: HOW long will that take?
SHE: HOW am I to know?

We can go on and on, and still there will be no substantial

change in these characters. There is conflict, all right, but it
is static. They remain on the same level. We can attribute this
staticness to bad orchestration. Both are the same type—there
is no deep conviction in either of them. Even the man who
pursues the woman lacks the drive, the determination of a
deep-rooted conviction that this is the only woman he wants
for his mate. They can go on like this for months. They might
drift apart, or the man might force a decision at the end—the
Lord knows when. As they stand right now, they are no happy
choice for a dramatic composition.
Without attack, counterattack, there can be no rising con-
flict.
She started from the pole of "uncertainty," and at the end,
she is still uncertain. He started from the pole of hope, and
at the end, he is still in the same state of mind.
If a character starts from "virtuousness" and goes to "vil-
lainy," let us see what intervening steps she has to take:
1. Virtuous (chaste, pure)
2. Thwarted (frustrated in her virtue)
3. Incorrect (faulty, unbecoming behavior)
4. Improper (she becomes indecorous, almost indecent)
5. Disorderly (unmanageable)
6. Immoral (licentious)
7. Villainous (depraved, wretched)
STATIC 139

If a character stops at the first or second step and lingers

there too long before taking the next step, the play will be-
come static. Such staticness usually occurs when the play lacks
the driving force which is the premise.

Here is an interesting static play, Idiot's Delight, by Rob-

ert E. Sherwood. Although the play's moral is highly com-
mendable and the author is deservedly a well-known play-
wright, it is a classic example of how not to write a play. (See
synopsis on page 294.)
The premise of this play is: Do armament manufacturers
stir up trouble and war? The author's answer is yes.
The premise is unfortunate—it is superficial. The play has
direction, but the moment the author chooses a segregated
minority group as the archenemy of peace, he negates the
truth. Can we say that only the sun is responsible for rain?
Of course not. There can be no rain without the oceans and
other factors. No armament maker can stir up trouble if there
is economic stability and contentment in the world. Arma-
ment manufacturing is the outgrowth of militarism, insuf-
ficient domestic and foreign markets, unemployment, and the
like. Although Mr. Sherwood speaks about the people in the
postscript of the printed version of his play, he sadly neglected
them in Idiot's Delight.
There are no people in his play, no people who really mat-
ter. We see Mr. Weber, the sinister armament manufacturer,
who says he wouldn't sell armaments if there were no buyers.
This is true. The crux of the point is, why do they buy arma-
ments? Mr. Sherwood has nothing to say about it. Since the
conception of his premise is superficial, his characters neces-
sarily become colored photographs.
His two main characters are Harry and Irene. Harry moves
from callousness to sincerity and fearlessness of death. Irene
starts from loose morals, and ends up on the same lofty heights
as Harry.
140 CONFLICT

If there are eight steps between these two poles, then they
started at the first, stayed on it for two and one-half acts, leaped
over the intervening second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth
steps as if they had never existed, and started to move again
from the seventh to the eighth step during the last part of the
play.
Characters wander in and out with no particular motiva-
tion. They enter, introduce themselves, and leave because
the author wishes to introduce someone else. They re-enter
for some artificial reason, tell what they think and how they
feel, and wander out again so that the next batch may come
on.
One thing on which we hope our critics will agree with
us is that a play should have conflict. Idiot's Delight has it
only in rare spots. Characters, instead of engaging in conflict,
tell us about themselves, which is contrary to all standards
of drama. What a pity that Harry, jovial and good-natured,
and Irene, with a colorful background, were not used more
advantageously. Here are a few, typical excerpts:
We are in the cocktail lounge of the Hotel Monte Gabriele.
A war is expected at any moment. The borders have been
closed, and the guests cannot leave. We turn to page six and
read:
DON: It's lovely there, too.
CHERRY: But I hear it has become too crowded there now. I—my
wife and I hoped it would be quieter here.
DON: Well, at the moment—it is rather quiet here. [No conflict.]
Now we turn to page thirty-two. People are still wander-
ing in and out, aimlessly. Quillery enters, sits down. Five of-
ficers come in and talk in Italian. Harry comes in and talks
to the Doctor about nothing in particular. The Doctor leaves,
and Harry talks to Quillery. After a moment or so the latter,
without apparent cause, addresses Harry as "Comrade." The
author says, when Quillery comes in, "an extreme radical-
STATIC 141

socialist, but still, French." What the audience sees is that he

is mad, except at a very few rational moments. Why should
he be mad? Because, apparently, he is a radical-socialist, and
extreme radical-socialists are all mad. Later he is killed for
taunting the Fascists, but now he and Harry talk of pigy, ciga-
rettes, and war. It is all empty talk, and then he says—this
socialist—"This is not 1914, remember. Since then, some new
voices have been heard—loud voices. I need mention only one
of them—Lenin—Nikolai Lenin." Since this extreme radical-
socialist is a madman, and is treated as such by his fellow
characters, the audience may believe they are hearing of an-
other extreme radical-socialist (synonym: madman). Then
Quillery talks of revolution, futile idealism to Harry, who
doesn't know what it's all about. But that just shows you how
crazy these extreme radical-socialists are.
Now we are on page forty-four. The cast is still coming in
and going out. The Doctor bewails the bad fortune that keeps
him here. They drink, they talk. A war may break out, but
there is still no sign of even static conflict. There is no sign
of a character, with the exception of a certain madman to
whom we have referred.
We turn to page sixty-six, sure that we shall have some ac-
tion this far along in the play.

WEBER: Will you have a drink, Irene?

IRENE: No, thank you.
WEBER: Will you, Captain Locicero?
CAPT.: Thank you. Brandy and soda, Dumptsy.
DUMPTSY: Si, Signor.
BEBE: [yells] Edna! We're going to have a drink!
[Edna comes in.]
WEBER: For me, Cinzano.
DUMPTSY: Oui, Monsieur. [He goes into the bar.]
DOCTOR: It is all incredible.
HARRY: Nevertheless, Doctor, I remain an optimist. [He looks at
Irene.] Let doubt prevail—throughout this night—with dawn
142 CONFLICT

will come again the light of truth! [He turns to Shirley.] Come
on, honey—let's dance. [They dance.]
Curtain

We rub our eyes, but this remains the end of the first act.
Should any young playwright dare to submit a play such as
this to any manager, he would risk being thrown out on his
ear. The audience must share Harry's optimism if it is to
overcome such a dose of hopelessness.
Sherwood must have seen or read Journey's End, in which
soldiers in the front-line trenches go to pieces in the nerve-
racking wait before they go over the top. The people in
Idiot's Delight are also waiting for war, but there is a dif-
ference. In Journey's End we have characters, flesh-and-blood
people, whom we know. They are striving to keep up their
courage. We feel, we know, the "Big Push" may come any
minute, and they have no choice but to face it and die. In
Idiot's Delight the characters are not in immediate danger.
There is no doubt that Sherwood had the best of intentions
when he wrote the play, but good intentions are not enough.
The greatest dramatic moment of Idiot's Delight is in the
second act. It is worth while to glance at it. Quillery heard
from a mechanic, who may have been wrong, that the Italians
have bombarded Paris. He goes berserk. He shouts.

QUILLERY: I say God damn you, assassinsl

MAJOR AND SOLDIERS [jump up]: Assassins!
HARRY: NOW listen, pal . . .
SHIRLEY: Harry! Don't get yourself mixed up in this mess!
QUILLERY: YOU see, we stand together! France, England, America!
Allies!
HARRY: Shut up, France! It's O.K., Captain. We can handle this.
QUILLERY: They don't dare fight against the power of England and
Francel The free democracies against the Fascist tyrannyl
HARRY: NOW, for God's sake,stop fluctuating!
STATIC 143

QUILLERY: England and France are fighting for the hopes of man-
kind!
HARRY: A minute ago, England was a butcher in a dress suit. Now
we're allies!
QUILLERY: We stand together. We stand together, forever! [Turns
to officers.]

T h e author makes this pitiful figure t u r n toward the

Italian officers. He is afraid they will not take offense, in which
case the great dramatic scene will collapse. So the poor fool
turns toward the officers.

QUILLERY: I say God damn you. God damn the villains that sent
you on this errand of death.
CAPTAIN: If you don't close your mouth, Frenchman, we shall be
forced to arrest you.

T h e first step toward conflict. Of course, it isn't quite fair to

fight a demented man, b u t it's better than nothing.

HARRY: It's all right, Captain. Mr. Quillery is for peace. He's going
back to France to stop the war.
JILLERY [to Harry]: You're not authorized to speak for me. I'm
competent to say what I feel, and what I say is "Down with
Fascism! Abaso Fascismo!"

After this, of course, they shoot him. The others go on

dancing and pretend they are not very much impressed. But
they can't fool us.
At one point Irene delivers a splendid speech to Achille,
but before that point—and after it—nothing.
Another, less obvious example of static conflict can be
found in Noel Coward's Design for Living.
Gilda has alternated between two lovers until her mar-
riage to a friend of her lovers. All three men are friends. The
two lovers come back to claim Gilda. Her husband is natu-
rally outraged. The four are together now, at the end of the
third act.
144 CONFLICT

GILDA [blandly]: Now then!

LEO: Now then indeed! ,
GILDA: What's going to happen?
OTTO: Social poise again. Oh dear! Oh dear, oh dear!
GILDA: YOU know you both look figures of fun in pajamas!
ERNEST [the husband]: I don't believe I've ever been so acutely
irritated in my whole life.
LEO: It is annoying for you, Ernest. I do see that. I am so sorry.
OTTO: Yes, we're both sorry.
ERNEST: I think your arrogance is insufferable. I don't know what
to say. I don't know what to do. I am very, very angry. Gilda, for
heaven's sake, tell them to go!
GILDA: They wouldn't. Not if I told them until I was black in the
face!
LEO: Quite right.
OTTO: Not without you, we wouldn't.
GILDA [smiling]: That's very sweet of you both.

There is no visible development in character, hence the

conflict is static. If a character, for any reason, loses its reality,
it becomes incapable of creating rising conflict.
If we wish to portray a bore, it is not necessary to bore the
audience. Nor is it necessary to be superficial to show a super-
ficial personality. We must know what motivates a character,
even if he does not know himself. The author must not write
in a vacuum to show characters who live in one. No sophistry
will explain away this fact.

GILDA [blandly]: Now then!

"Now then" means "what is going to happen now?" and

no more than that. There is nothing in it of provocation, of
attack leading to counterattack. Even for the shallow Gilda
it is too ineffectual, and it gets the right answer: "Now then
indeed."
If Gilda's remark had imperceptible movement, Leo's re-
sponse had none at all. It not only fails to take up the tiny
 STATIC 145

challenge she offered; it leaves it as it was. No movement to

be seen.
The next line is sarcastic, but the three "oh dears" are not
only not a challenge, but an admission of the speaker's impo-
tence to remedy the situation. If you doubt this, look at the
next line: "You both look figures of fun in those pajamas."
Apparently Otto's sarcasm passed unnoticed. Gilda has not
been touched, and the play refuses to move.
The very least the author could have done at this point was
show another facet of Gilda's character. We might have seen
the motivation behind Gilda's love life, her flippancy. But we
see nothing but a superfluous comment—to be expected from
"characters" who are simply manikins through whom the au-
thor speaks.
ERNEST: I don't believe I've ever been so acutely irritated in my
whole life.
Anyone who says such a line is harmless. He can whine, but
he cannot add or detract from the sum of the play. His ex-
clamation does not aggravate the situation. There is no threat,
no action. What is a weak character? One who, for any reason,
cannot make a decision.
LEO: It is annoying for you, Ernest. I do see that. I am sorry.
There is something in this line—a trace of heartlessness.
Leo doesn't give a damn about Ernest. But the conflict stays
where it was. Then Otto steps in and assures Ernest that he
too is sorry. If this is funny at all, it is because such an atti-
tude, in life, would be brutal and unfeeling. The character
who can employ such humor and still be heroic does not ex-
ist—and cannot create conflict.
Ernest's next speech is revealing. The antagonist admits
that he cannot put up any sort of a fight, that he must appeal
to the goal (Gilda) to fight his battle for him. Gilda, Otto,
and Leo want what they want and there is no one even to try

^
146 CONFLICT

to stop them. This may be funny in a two-line gag, but it isn't

the conflict necessary for a play.
If you reread the whole quotation, you will see that at the
last line the play is almost in the same position as when it
started. The movement is negligible, particularly when you
remember that the act goes on like this for several pages.
In Brass Ankle, by Du Bose Heyward, almost the whole
first act is taken up with exposition. But the second and third
acts make up for the bad first one. In Design for Lixring there
is cause for conflict in the initial situation, but it never ma-
terializes because of the superficiality of the characters. The
result is a static conflict.

4. Jumping
One of the chief dangers in any jumping conflict is that
the author believes the conflict is rising smoothly. He resents
any critic who insists that the conflict jumps. What are the
danger signals which an author can look for? How can he tell
when he is going in the wrong direction? Here are a few
pointers:
No honest man will become a thief overnight; no thief will
become honest in the same period of time. No sane woman
will leave her husband on the spur of the moment, without
previous motivation. No burglar contemplates a robbery and
carries it out at the same time. No violent physical act was
ever carried out without mental preparation. No shipwreck
has ever occurred without a sound reason. Some essential part
of the ship may be missing; the captain may be overworked
or inexperienced or ill. Even when a ship collides with an
iceberg, human negligence is involved. Read Good Hope by
Heijermans, and see how a ship thus goes under and human
tragedy reaches a new height.
If you want to avoid jumping or static conflicts, you might
JUMPING 147

as well know beforehand what road your characters have to

travel.
Here are a few examples. They might go from:
drunkenness to sobriety
sobriety to drunkenness
timidity to brazenness
brazenness to timidity
simplicity to pretentiousness
pretentiousness to simplicity
fidelity to infidelity, and so on.
// you know your character has to travel from one pole to
another, you are in an advantageous position to see that he or
she grows at a steady rate. You are not fumbling around; in-
stead, your characters have a destination and they fight every
inch of the way to reach it.
If your character starts from "fidelity," and with a Gar-
gantuan leap arrives at "infidelity," omitting the interven-
ing steps, it will be a jumping conflict, and your play will
suffer.
Here is a jumping conflict:

HE: DO you love me?

SHE: Oh, I don't know.
HE: Don't be a dumbbell. Make up your mind, will you?
SHE: Smart guy, huh?
HE: Not so smart if I can fall for a dame like you.
SHE: I'll smack your face in a minute. [She walks away.]
He in this instance started from "fondness," and arrived
at "sneering," without any transition at all. She started from
"uncertainty" and leaped to "anger."
The man's character was false at the start—false because if
he loved her, he could not ask for her love and say in the
same breath that she is a dumbbell. If he thought her dumb
in the first place, he wouldn't want her love.
Both are of the same type again—impetuous, excitable.
148 CONFLICT

Transition in such characters moves with lightning speed.

Before you knew it, the scene was over. Yes, you can prolong
it, but since they are moving with leaps and bounds, they'll
be in each other's hair in no time. Liliom, in Ferenc Mol-
nar's play, is the same type as "He" in this scene. But Liliom's
counterpart is exactly the opposite. Julie is subservient, pa-
tient, and loving.
Badly orchestrated characters usually create static or jump-
ing conflict, although even well-orchestrated characters can
jump—and frequently do—if the proper transition is missing.
If you wish to create jumping conflict, you have only to
force the characters into action which is alien to them. Make
them act without thinking, and you will be successful in your
own way, but unsuccessful with your play.
If, for instance, you have as your premise: "A dishonored
man can redeem himself through self-sacrifice," the starting
point will be a dishonored man. The goal, the same man
honored, cleansed, perhaps glorified. Between these two poles
lies a space, "empty" as yet. How he is going to fill this space
is up to the character. If the author chooses characters who
believe in, and are willing to fight for, the premise, he is on
the right road. The next step will be to study them as thor-
oughly as possible. This study will show—a double check—if
they are really capable of doing what the premise expects of
them.
It is not enough if the "dishonored man" saves an old
woman from fire, a la Hollywood, and is redeemed instan-
taneously. There must be a logical chain of events leading up
to the sacrifice.
Between winter and summer come autumn and spring.
Between honor and dishonor there are steps which lead
from one to the other. Every step must be taken.
When Nora, in A Doll's House, wants to leave Helmer
and her children, she lets us know why. More than that, we
are convinced that this is the only step she could have taken.
JUMPING 149

In life, she might have been tight-lipped; might never have

said a word—just banged the door after her. If she were to
do that on the stage it would be a jumping conflict. We
should not understand her, although her motives might be
of the best.
We must be completely in the know, and in jumping con-
flict our knowledge is only superficial. Real characters must
be given a chance to reveal themselves, and we must be given
a chance to observe the significant changes which take place in
them.
We propose to strip the last part of the third act in A Doll's
House, leaving the essentials, but still rendering it ineffectual.
This is the grand finale of the play. Helmer has just told
Nora that he would not permit her to bring up the children.
But the bell rings and a letter arrives, containing a note and
the forged bond. Helmer cries out that he is saved.
NORA: And I?
HELMER: YOU too, of course. We're both saved, both you and I. I
have forgiven you, Nora.
NORA: Thank you for your forgiveness. [She goes out.]
HELMER: NO, don't go— [looks in] What are you doing in there?
NORA [from within]: Taking off my fancy dress.
HELMER: Yes, do. Try and calm yourself and make your mind easy
again, my frightened little singing bird.
NORA [enters, in everyday dress]: I have changed my things now.
HELMER: But what for? So late as this.
NORA: It is for the reason that I cannot remain with you any longer.
HELMER: Nora! Noral You are out of your mind! I won't allow it!
I forbid you!
NORA: It is no use to forbid me anything any longer.
HELMER: YOU do not love me any more.
NORA: NO.
HELMER: Nora! And you can say that!
NORA: It gives me great pain, but I cannot help it.
HELMER: I see, I see. An abyss has opened between us—there is no
denying it. But, Nora, would it not be possible to fill it up?
150 CONFLICT

NORA: As I am now, I am no wife for you. [She takes cloak and hat
and a small bag.]
HELMER: Nora, not nowl Wait till tomorrow.
NORA [putting on her cloak]: I cannot spend the night in a strange
man's room.
HELMER: All overt All over! Nora, shall you never think of me
again?
NORA: I know I shall often think of you and the children and this
house. Good-by. [She goes out through the hall.]
HELMER [sinks down on a chair at the door and buries his face in
his hands]: Noral Norat [looks round and rises] Empty. She's
gone. [The sound of a door shutting is heard from below.]
The End

What we have here is a hybrid conflict of the worst kind.

It is not static, nor is it always jumping. It is a combination
of jumping and rising conflict, which might easily confuse
the young author. Therefore we shall examine it more closely.
There is rising conflict when Nora announces that she
will leave. Helmer forbids her, but she goes just .the same.
This is all right. But there is jumping conflict elsewhere.
The first jump is Nora's reaction to Helmer's forgiveness.
She thanks him and leaves the room—leaping over an abyss
to do so. Does she really mean that she is grateful, or is she
being subtly sarcastic? Nora is not much good at sarcasm.
She is acutely aware of the injustice done to her and there-
fore would not be likely to joke about it, bitterly or other-
wise. Yet it does not seem like a moment for gratitude on
her part. We are left wondering when she leaves the room.
When she returns and announces that she cannot remain
with Helmer any longer, it is far too sudden. There has been
no preparation for such a step.
But the greatest jump is Helmer's reaction to the fact that
Nora no longer loves him:
I see, I see. An abyss has opened between us.
JUMPING 151

It is almost unbelievable that a man of Helmer's character

would arrive at such understanding without presenting a
powerful rebuttal beforehand. If you will read the original
version at the end of this chapter, you will see what we mean.
Nora leaves, at the end of the scene (in our version), but
it is no decision of her problem. It is a jump—an impulse.
We feel no absolute necessity for her action. Perhaps it is
a caprice which she will regret—and retract—tomorrow.
Leaving Helmer as she does (in our version again), Nora
fails to convince us, regardless of her justification. This is
the inevitable result of a jumping conflict.

Whenever a conflict lags, rises jerkily, stops, or jumps,

look to your premise. Is it clear cut? Is it active? Remedy
any fault here, and then turn to your characters. Perhaps
your protagonist is too weak to carry the burden of the play
(bad orchestration). Perhaps some of your characters are not
growing constantly. Don't forget that staticness is the direct
result of a static character who cannot make up his mind.
And don't forget that he may be static because he is not
tridimensional. The genuine rising conflict is the product
of characters who are well rounded in terms of the premise.
Every action of such a character will be understandable and
dramatic to the audience.
If your premise is "Jealousy not only destroys itself, but
destroys the object of its love," you know, or should know,
that every line of your play, every move your characters make,
must further the premise. Granted that there are many solu-
tions for any given situation, your characters are permitted
to choose only those which will help prove the premise. The
moment you decide upon a premise, you and your characters
become its slave. Each character must feel, intensely, that the
action dictated by the premise is the only action possible.
Moreover, the dramatist must be convinced of the absolute
truth of his premise, or his characters will be the pale repeti-
152 CONFLICT

tion of his undigested, superficial conviction. Remember, a

play is not an imitation of life, but the essence of life. You
must condense all that is important, all that is necessary. You
will see, in the last part of A Doll's House, how every possibil-
ity is exhausted before Nora leaves her husband. Even if you
disagree with her final decision, you understand it. For Nora,
it is absolutely necessary that she leave.
When characters go round and round, without making any
decision, the play will undoubtedly be a bore. But if they are
in a process of growth, there is nothing to fear.
The pivotal character is responsible for the growth through
conflict. Be sure that your pivotal character is relentless, can-
not and will not compromise. Hamlet, Krogstad, Lavinia,
Hedda Gabler, Macbeth, Iago, Manders in Ghosts, the doc-
tors in Yellow Jack—these are such pivotal forces that com-
promise is out of the question. If your play jumps or becomes
static, see to it that the unity of opposites is solidly established.
The point is that the bond between the characters cannot be
broken, except through the transformation of a trait or a
characteristic in a person, or by death itself.
But let us go back to Nora once more. Step by step, Nora
approached a minor climax. She builds on top of it, arriving
at another climax, this time on a higher plane. She goes still
higher, constantly nghting, clearing the way until she reaches
the ultimate goal, which was contained in the premise.
And now, perhaps, you should read the original for your-
self. The sentences italicized (disregarding stage directions,
of course) are those we used in our example of jumping con-
flict.
A DOLL'S HOUSE
Act III
MAID: [half-dressed, comes to the door] A letter for the mistress.
HELMEK: Give it to me. [Takes the letter and shuts the door.] Yes,
it is from him. You shall not have it; I will read it myself.
JUMPING 153

NORA: Yes, read it.

HELMER: [standing by the lamp] I scarcely have the courage to do
it. It may mean ruin for both of us. No, I must know. [Tears
open the letter, runs his eye over a few lines, looks at a paper en-
closed, and gives a shout of joy.] Nora! [She looks at him ques-
tioningly.] Nora!— No, I must read it once again— Yes, it is
true! / am saved! Nora, 1 am saved!
NORA: And I?
HELMER: YOU too, of course; we are both saved, both you and I.
Look, he sends you your bond back. He says he regrets and re-
pents—that a happy change in his life—never mind what he
says! We are saved, Nora! No one can do anything to you. Oh,
Nora, Nora!—no, first 1 must destroy these hateful things—
[Takes a look at the bond.] No, no, I won't look at it. The whole
thing shall be nothing but a bad dream to me. [Tears up the
bond and both letters, throws them all into the stove, and watches
them burn.] There—now it doesn't exist any longer. He says
that since Christmas Eve you— These must have been three
dreadful days for you, Nora.
NORA: I have fought a hard fight these three days.
HELMER: And suffered agonies, and seen no way out but— No,
we won't call any of those horrors to mind. We will only shout
with joy, and keep saying, "It's all over! It's all over!" Listen to
me, Nora. You don't seem to realize that it is all over. What is
this?—such a cold, set face! My poor little Nora, I quite under-
stand; you don't feel as if you could believe that I have forgiven
you. But it is true, Nora, I swear it; I have forgiven you every-
thing. I know that what you did, you did out of love for me.
NORA: That is true.
HELMER: YOU have loved me as a wife ought to love her husband.
Only you had not sufficient knowledge to judge by the means
you used. But do you suppose you are any the less dear to me,
because you don't understand how to act on your own responsi-
bility? No, no; only lean on me; I will advise you and direct you.
I should not be a man if this womanly helplessness did not just
give you a double attractiveness in my eyes. You must not think
any more about the hard things I said in my first moment of
consternation, when I thought everything was going to over-
154 CONFLICT

whelm me. / have forgiven you, Nora; I swear to you that I have
forgiven you.
NORA: Thank you for your forgiveness. [She goes out through the
door to the right.]
HELMER: NO, don't go— [Looks in.] What are you doing in there?
NORA: [from within] Taking off my fancy dress.
HELMER: [standing at the open door] Yes, do. Try and calm your-
self, and make your mind easy again, my frightened little singing
bird. Be at rest, and feel secure; I have broad wings to shelter
you under. [Walks up and down by the door.] How warm and
cozy our home is, Nora. Here is the shelter for you; here I will
protect you like a hunted dove that I have saved from a hawk's
daws; I will bring peace to your poor beating heart. It will come,
little by little, Nora, believe me. Tomorrow morning you will
look upon it all quite differently; soon everything will be just
as it was before. Very soon you won't need me to assure you that
I have forgiven you; you will yourself feel the certainty that I
have done so. Can you suppose I should ever think of such a
thing as repudiating you, or even reproaching you? You have no
idea what a true man's heart is like, Nora. There is something
so indescribably sweet and satisfying, to a man, in the knowledge
that he has forgiven his wife—forgiven her freely, and with all
his heart. It seems as if that had made her, as it were, doubly his
own; he has given her a new life, so to speak; and she has, in a
way, become both wife and child to him. So you shall be for me
after this, my little scared, helpless darling. Have no anxiety
about anything, Nora; only be frank and open with me, and I
will serve as will and conscience both to you— What is this? Not
gone to bed? Have you changed your things?
NORA: [in everyday dress] Yes, Torvald, / have changed my things
now.
HELMER: But what for?—so late as this.
NORA: I shall not sleep tonight.
HELMER: But, my dear Nora—
NORA: [looking at her watch] It is not so very late. Sit down here,
Torvald. You and I have much to say to one another. [She sits
down at one side of the table.]
HELMER: Nora—what is this—this cold, set face?
JUMPING 155
NORA: Sit down. It will take some time; I have a lot to talk over with
you.
HELMER: [sits down at the opposite side of the table.] You alarm
me, Nora!—and I don't understand you.
NORA: NO, that is just it. You don't understand me, and I have
never understood you either—before tonight. No, you mustn't
interrupt me. You must simply listen to what I say. Torvald, this
is a settling of accounts.
HELMER: What do you mean by that?
NORA: [after a short silence] Isn't there one thing that strikes you
as strange in our sitting here like this?
HELMER: What is that?
NORA: We have been married now eight years. Does it not occur
to you that this is the first time we two, you and I, husband and
wife, have had a serious conversation?
HELMER: What do you mean by serious?
NORA: In all these eight years—longer than that—from the very
beginning of our acquaintance, we have never exchanged a word
on any serious subject.
HELMER: Was it likely that I would be continually and forever
telling you about worries that you could not help me to bear?
NORA: I am not speaking about business matters. I say that we have
never sat down in earnest together to try and get at the bottom
of anything.
HELMER: But, dearest Nora, would it have been any good to you?
NORA: That is just it; you have never understood me. I have been
greatly wronged, Torvald—first by Papa and then by you.
HELMER: What! by us two—by us two, who have loved you better
than anyone else in the world?
NORA: [shaking her head] You have never loved me. You have only
thought it pleasant to be in love with me.
HELMER: Nora, what do I hear you saying?
NORA: It is perfectly true, Torvald. When I was at home with Papa,
he told me his opinion about everything, and so I had the same
opinions; and if I differed from him I concealed the fact, be-
cause he would not have liked it. He called me his doll-child,
and he played with me just as I used to play with my dolls. And
when I came to live with you—
156 CONFLICT

HELMER: What sort of an expression is that to use about our mar-

riage?
NORA: [undisturbed] I mean that I was simply transferred from
Papa's hands into yours. You arranged everything according to
your own taste, and so I got the same tastes as you—or else I
pretended to, I am really not quite sure which—I think, some-
times the one and sometimes the other. When I look back on it,
it seems to me as if I had been living here like a poor woman—
just from hand to mouth. I have existed merely to perform tricks
for you, Torvald. But you would have it so. You and Papa have
committed a great sin against me. It is your fault that I have
made nothing of my life.
HELMER: HOW unreasonable and how ungrateful you are. Nora!
Have you not been happy here?
NORA: N O , I have never been happy. I thought I was, but it has
never really been so.
HELMER: Not—not happyl
NORA: N O , only merry. And you have always been so kind to me.
But our home has been nothing but a playroom. I have been
your doll-wife, just as at home I was Papa's doll-child, and here
the children have been my dolls. I thought it great fun when you
played with me, just as they thought it great fun when I played
with them. That is what our marriage has been, Torvald.
HELMER: There is some truth in what you say—exaggerated and
strained as your view of it is. But for the future it will be differ-
ent. Playtime shall be over, and lesson time shall begin.
NORA: Whose lessons? Mine, or the children's?
HELMER: Both yours and the children's, my darling Nora.
NORA: Alas, Torvald, you are not the man to educate me into be-
ing a proper wife for you.
HELMER: And you can say thatl
NORA: And I—how am I fitted to bring up the children?
HELMER: Nora!
NORA: Didn't you say so yourself a little while ago—that you dare
not trust me to bring them up?
HELMER: In a moment of anger! Why do you pay any heed to that?
NORA: Indeed, you were perfectly right. I am not fit for the task.
There is another task I must undertake first. I must try and edu-
JUMPING 157
cate myself—you are not the man to help me in that. I must do
that for myself. And that is why I am going to leave you now.
HELMER: [springing up] What do you say?
NORA: I must stand quite alone, if I am to understand myself and
everything about me. It is for that reason that I cannot remain
with you any longer.
HELMER: Nora, Noral
NORA: I am going away from here now, at once. I am sure Christine
will take me in for the night—
HELMER: YOU are out of your mind! I won't allow it! I forbid you!
NORA: /(is no use forbidding me anything any longer. I will take
with me what belongs to myself. I will take nothing from you,
either now or later.
HELMER: What sort of madness is thisl
NORA: Tomorrow I shall go home— I mean to my old home. It will
be easiest for me to find something to do there.
HELMER: YOU blind, foolish womanl
NORA: I must try and get some sense, Torvald.
HELMER: TO desert your home, your husband and your children!
And you don't consider what people will say!
NORA: I cannot consider that at all. I only know that it is necessary
for me.
HELMER: It's shocking. This is how you would neglect your most
sacred duties.
NORA: What do you consider my most sacred duties?
HELMER: DO I need to tell you that? Are they not your duties to
your husband and your children?
NORA: I have other duties just as sacred.
HELMER: That you have not. What duties could those be?
NORA: Duties to myself.
HELMER: Before all else, you are a wife and a mother.
NORA: I don't believe that any longer. I believe that before all else
I am a reasonable human being, just as you are—or, at all events,
that I must try and become one. I know quite well, Torvald, that
most people would think you right, and that views of that kind
are to be found in books; but I can no longer content myself with
what most people say, or what is found in books. I must think
over things for myself and get to understand them.
158 CONFLICT

HELMER: Can you not understand your place in your own home?
Have you not a reliable guide in such matters as that—have you
no religion?
NORA: I am afraid, Torvald, I do not exactly know what religion is.
HELMER: What are you saying?
NORA: I know nothing but what the clergyman said, when I went
to be confirmed. He told me that religion was this, and that, and
the other. When I am away from all this, and am alone, I will
look into that matter too. I will see if what the clergyman said
is true, or, at all events, if it is true for me.
HELMER: This is unheard of in a girl of your agel But if religion
cannot lead you aright, let me try and waken your conscience.
I suppose you have some moral sense? Or—answer me—am I to
think you have none?
NORA: I assure you, Torvald, that is not an easy question to answer.
I really don't know. The thing perplexes me altogether. I only
know that you and I look at it in quite a different light. I am
learning, too, that the law is quite another thing from what I sup-
posed; but I find it impossible to convince myself that the law is
right. According to it a woman has no right to spare her old dy-
ing father, or to save her husband's life. I can't believe that.
HELMER: YOU talk like a child. You don't understand the conditions
of the world in which you live.
NORA: N O , I don't. But now I am going to try. I am going to see
if I can make out who is right, the world or I.
HELMER: YOU are ill, Nora; you are delirious; I almost think you
are out of your mind.
NORA: I have never felt my mind so clear and certain as tonight.
HELMER: And is it with a clear and certain mind that you forsake
your husband and your children?
NORA: Yes, it is.
HELMER: Then there is only one possible explanation.
NORA: What is that?
HELMER: YOU do not love me any more.
NORA: NO, that is just it.
HELMER: Nora!—and you can say that?
NORA: It gives me great pain, Torvald, for you have always been
so kind to me, but I cannot help it. I do not love you any more.
JUMPING 159
HELMER: [regaining his composure] Is that a clear and certain con-
viction too?
NORA: Yes, absolutely clear and certain. That is the reason why I
will not stay here any longer.
HELMER: And can you tell me what I have done to forfeit your love?
NORA: Yes, indeed I can. It was tonight, when the wonderful thing
did not happen; then I saw you were not the man I had thought
you.
HELMER: Explain yourself better—I don't understand you.
NORA: I have waited so patiently for eight years; for goodness
knows, I knew very well that wonderful things don't happen
every day. Then this horrible misfortune came upon me; and
then I felt quite certain that the wonderful thing was going to
happen at last. When Krogstad's letter was lying out there, never
for a moment did I imagine that you would consent to accept
this man's conditions. I was so absolutely certain that you would
say to him: publish the thing to the whole world. And when that
was done—
HELMER: Yes, what then—when I had exposed my wife to shame
and disgrace?
NORA: When that was done, I was so absolutely certain, you would
come forward and take everything upon yourself, and say: I am
the guilty one.
HELMER: Nora—!
NORA: YOU mean that I would never have accepted such a sacrifice
on your part? No, of course not. But what would my assurances
have been worth against yours? That is the wonderful thing
which I hoped for and feared; and it was to prevent that that I
wanted to kill myself.
HELMER: I would gladly work night and day for you, Nora—bear
sorrow and want for your sake. But no one would sacrifice his
honor for the one he loves.
NORA: It is a thing hundreds of thousands of women have done.
HELMER: Oh, you think and talk like a heedless child.
NORA: Maybe. But you neither think nor talk like the man I could
bind myself to. As soon as your fear was over—and it was not
fear for what threatened me, but for what might happen to you
—when the whole thing was past, as far as you were concerned
 160 CONFLICT

it was exactly as if nothing at all had happened. Exactly as be-

fore, I was your little skylark, your doll, which you would in
future treat with doubly gentle care, because it was so brittle
and fragile. [Getting up] Torvald, it was then it dawned upon
me that for eight years I had been living here with a strange man,
and had borne him three children— Oh, I can't bear to think of
itl I could tear myself into little bits!
HELMER: [sadly] I see, I see. An abyss has opened between us—
there is no denying it. But, Nora, would it not be possible to
fill it up?
NORA: As I am now, I am no wife for you.
HELMER: I have it in me to become a different man.
NORA: Perhaps—if your doll is taken away from you.
, HELMER: But to part!—to part from youl No, no, Nora, I can't un-
derstand that idea.
NORA: [going out to the right] That makes it all the more certain
that it must be done. [She comes back with her cloak and hat and
a small bag which she puts on a chair by the table.]
HELMER: Nora, Nora, not now! Wait till tomorrow.
NORA: [putting on her cloak] I cannot spend the night in a strange
man's room.
HELMER: But can't we live here like brother and sister—?
NORA: [putting on her hat] You know very well that would not last
long. [Puts the shawl around her.] Good-by, Torvald. I won't
see the little ones. I know they are in better hands than mine.
As I am now, I can be of no use to them.
HELMER: But some day, Nora—some day?
NORA: HOW can I tell? I have no idea what is going to become of
me.
HELMER: But you are my wife, whatever becomes of you.
NORA: Listen, Torvald. I have heard that when a wife deserts her
husband's house, as I am doing now, he is legally freed from all
obligations toward her. In any case, I set you free from all your
obligations. You are not to feel yourself bound in the slightest
way, any more than I shall. There must be perfect freedom on
both sides. See, here is your ring back. Give me mine.
HELMER: That too?
JUMPING 161

NORA: That too.

HELMER: Here it is.
NORA: That's right. Now it is all over. I have put the keys here.
The maids know all about everything in the house—better than
I do. Tomorrow, after I have left her, Christine will come here
and pack up my own things that I brought with me from home.
I will have them sent after me.
HELMER: All over! All over!—Nora, shall you never think of me
again?
NORA: / know I shall often think of you and the children and the
house.
HELMER: May I write to you, Nora?
NORA: NO—never. You must not do that.
HELMER: But at least let me send you—
NORA: Nothing—nothing—
HELMER: Let me help you if you are in want
NORA: NO. I can receive nothing from a stranger.
HELMER: Nora, can I never be anything more than stranger to you?
NORA: [taking her bag] Ah, Torvald, the most wonderful thing of
all would have to happen.
HELMER: Tell me what that would bel
NORA: Both you and I would have to be so changed that— Oh,
Torvald, I don't believe any longer in wonderful things hap-
pening.
HELMER: But I will believe in it. Tell me. So changed that?
NORA: That our life together would be a real wedlock. Good-by.
[She goes out through the hall.]
HELMER: [sinks down on a chair at the door and buries his face in
his hands] Nora! Nora! [looks round, and rises] Empty. She is
gone. [A hope flashes across his mind.] The most wonderful thing
of all—? [The sound of a door shutting is heard from below.]
Curtain

Now reread the jumping conflict once more. It is worth

while to see how the elimination of transition can turn a
rising conflict into a jumping one.
162 CONFLICT

5. Rising

Rising conflict is the result of a clear-cut premise and

well-orchestrated, three-dimensional characters, among whom
unity is strongly established.
"Inflated egotism destroys itself" is the premise of Ibsen's
Hedda Gabler. In the end, Hedda kills herself because un-
wittingly she was caught in the web of her own making.
As the play opens, Tesman and Hedda, his wife, have re-
turned from their honeymoon the preceding night. Miss
Tesman, the aunt with whom he had lived, arrives early in
the morning to see if everything is all right. She and her
bedridden sister have mortgaged their small annuity to se-
cure a house for the newlyweds. She thinks of Tesman as her
son, and he feels that she is both father and mother to him.

TESMAN: Why, what a gorgeous bonnet you've been investing in!

[The bonnet is in his hand; he looks at it from all sides.]
MISS T.: I bought it on Hedda's account.
TESMAN: On Hedda's account? Eh?
MISS T.: Yes, so that Hedda needn't be ashamed of me if we hap
pened to go out together. [Tesman puts down the bonnet, and
Hedda at last enters. She's irritable. Miss Tesman gives a pack-
age to Tesman.]
TESMAN: Well, I declare! Have you really saved them for me, Aunt
Julia? Hedda! Isn't this touching?
HEDDA: Well, what is it?
TESMAN: My old morning shoes! My slippers!
HEDDA: Indeed. I remember you often spoke of them while we were
abroad.
TESMAN: Yes, I missed them terribly. [Goes up to her.] Now you
shall see them, Hedda!
HEDDA: [going toward the stove] Thanks, I really don't care about
it.
TESMAN: [following her] Only think—ill as she was, Aunt Rina
RISING 163

embroidered these for me. Oh, you can't think of how many
associations cling to them.
HEDDA: [at the table] Scarcely for me.
MISS T.: Of course not for Hedda, George.
TESMAN: Well, but now that she belongs to the family, I thought—
HEDDA: [interrupting] We shall never get on with this servant, Tes-
man. [The servant has practically mothered Tesman.]
MISS T.: Not get on with Bertha?
TESMAN: Why, dear, what puts that in your head, eh?
HEDDA: [pointing] Look there! She has left her bonnet lying about
on a chair.
TESMAN: [In consternation, drops the slippers on the floor.] Why,
Hedda—
HEDDA: Just fancy, if anyone should come in and see it.
TESMAN: But Hedda—that's Aunt Julia's bonnetl
HEDDA: IS it!
MISS T.: [taking up the bonnet] Yes, indeed it's mine. And, what's
more, it's not old, Madame Hedda.
HEDDA: I really did not look closely at it, Miss Tesman.
MISS T.: [tying on the bonnet] Let me tell you, it's the first time I
have worn it—the very first time.
TESMAN: And a very nice bonnet it is too—quite a beauty.
MISS T.: Oh, it's no such great thing, George. [Looks around her.]
My parasol—? Oh, here. [Takes it.] For this is mine, too—[mut-
ters]—not Bertha's.
TESMAN: A new bonnet and new parasol! Only think, Hedda!
HEDDA: Very handsome indeed.
TESMAN: Yes, isn't it, eh? But, Aunty, take a good look at Hedda
before you go. See how handsome she is!
MISS T.: Oh, my dear boy, there's nothing new in that. Hedda was
always lovely. [She moves away.]
TESMAN: [following] Yes, but have you noticed what splendid con-
dition she is in? How she has filled out on the journey?
HEDDA: [crossing room] Oh, do be quiet!

Only a few pages at the very beginning of the play, and

three full, rounded characters stand before us. We know
them; they breathe and live, whereas in Idiot's Delight the
164 CONFLICT

author needs two and one-half acts to bring his two main
characters together to defy a hostile world in the closing
scene of the play.
Why does the conflict rise in Hedda Gabler? First of all,
there is unity of opposites; then the characters are well-
rounded persons with strong convictions. Hedda despises
Tesman and everything he stands for. She is unrelenting.
She married him for convenience and uses him to attain a
higher place in society. Can she corrupt him—the soul of
purity and scrupulous honesty?
No playwright can line up such people—all of them so
utterly different—without a well-defined premise.
Tension can be achieved through uncompromising char-
acters in a death struggle. The premise should show the goal,
and the characters should be driven to this goal, as Fate did
in the Greek drama.
In Tartuffe, the rising conflict is attributable to Orgon,
the pivotal character, who forces the conflict. He is uncom-
promising. To start with, he declares:
He [Tartuffe] detached my soul from these and taught me to set
my heart on nothing that is here below. And now, were I to see my
mother, wife, or children die, I should do so without so much as a
pang.
Any man who can make such statements will create con-
flict—and he does.
As Helmer's belief in scrupulous honesty and civic pride
precipitated his drama, Orgon's rabid intolerance brought
on himself all the mishaps that befell him. We want to em-
phasize the "rabid intolerance." Iago in Othello is relentless.
Hamlet's bulldog tenacity drives him on to the bitter end.
Oedipus' deep-rooted desire to find the murderer of the king
brought tragedy upon himself. Such iron-willed characters,
driven by a well-understood and clearly defined premise, can-
not help but lift the play to the highest pitch.
RISING 105

Two determined, uncompromising forces in combat will

create a virile rising conflict.
Don't let anyone tell you that only certain types of con-
flict possess dramatic or theatrical value. Any type will do,
if you have tridimensional characters with a clear-cut prem-
ise. Through conflict, these characters will reveal themselves,
assume dramatic value, suspense, and all the other attributes
which theatrical jargon terms "dramatic."
In Ghosts, Manders' opposition to Mrs. Alving is gentle,
at first but it slowly develops into a rising conflict.
MANDERS: Ah! There we have the outcome of your reading. Fine
fruit it has borne—this abominable, subversive, free-thinking lit-
erature 1
(Poor Manders. How righteous he is in his condemnation.
He feels that he has uttered the last word, and Mrs. Alving
will be crushed. His attack was condemnation. Now we have
the counterattack, constituting conflict. The condemnation
alone could not grow into conflict if the person condemned
accepted it. But Mrs. Alving rejects it, hurls it back in his
face.)
MRS. ALVING: YOU are wrong there, my friend. Youare the one who
made me begin to think, and I owe you my best thanks for it.
(No wonder Manders cries out in consternation, "II" The
counterattack must be stronger than the attack in order that
the conflict may not be static. Mrs. Alving, therefore, ac-
knowledges the deed, but puts the blame on her accuser.)
MRS. ALVING; Yesl By forcing me to submit to what you call my
duty, and my obligations, by praising as right and just what my
whole soul revolted against as it would against something abom-
inable. That was what led me to examine your teachings criti-
cally. I only wanted to unravel one point in them, but as soon
as I had got them unraveled the whole fabric came to pieces and
then I realized that it was only machine-made.
166 CONFLICT

(She forces him into a defensive position. He is staggered

for a moment. Attack, counterattack.)
MANDERS: [softly and with emotion] Is that all that I accomplished
by the hardest struggle of my life?
(Mrs. Alving offered herself to him at a critical moment. He
is reminding her of his sacrifice in refusing her. This soft
question is a challenge, and Mrs. Alving meets it.)
MRS. ALVING: Call it rather the most ignominious defeat of your
life.
Every word carries the conflict further.

If I call someone a thief, it is an invitation to conflict, but

nothing more. Just as the male is needed, with the female,
for conception, so something is needed, with the challenge,
for a conflict. The accused might answer, "Look who's talk-
ing," and refuse to take offense, thus creating an abortion,
so far as conflict is concerned. But if he calls you a thief, in
retaliation, there is the promise of a conflict.
The drama is not the image of life, but the essence. We
must condense. In life, people quarrel year in, year out,
without once deciding to remove the factor which causes
the trouble. In drama this must be condensed to the es-
sentials, giving the illusion of years of bickering without the
superfluous dialogue.
It is interesting to note that rising conflict was achieved in
Tartuffe by a method different from that in A Doll's House.
Whereas in Ibsen's plays, conflict means actual combat be-
tween characters, in Tartuffe Moliere starts with group lined
up against group. Orgon's insistence to be ruined by himself
cannot be considered conflict. Nevertheless, it achieves rising
tension. Let us watch him.
ORGON: It is a deed of gift, drawn up with all formality by which
I make over my whole estate to you.
RISING 167

(This statement is certainly not an attack.)

TARTUFFE: [recoiling] To me? Oh, brother, brother, how came you
to think of this?
(And this is not a counterattack, either.)
ORGON: Why, to tell you the truth, it was your story that put it into
my head.
TARTUFFE: My story?
ORGON: Yes—about your friend at Lyons—I mean Limoges. Surely
you have not forgotten that?
TARTUFFE: It comes back to me now. But had I thought it would
prompt you to this, brother, I would have cut out my tongue ere
I had told you.
ORGON: But you don't—you can't mean that you refuse?
TARTUFFE: Nay, how can I accept so heavy a responsibility.
ORGON: Why not? The other man did.
TARTUFFE: Ah, brother, but he was a saint, whereas I am but an
unworthy vessel.
ORGON: I know none saintlier, none I would trust more entirely
than you.
TARTUFFE: Were I to accept this trust, men—men of Belial—would
say that I had taken a base advantage of your simplicity.
ORGON: Men know me better than that, my friend. I am not one
who can be easily duped.
TARTUFFE: Not what they may say of me, brother, but of you.
ORGON: Then dismiss your fear, my friend, for it is my delight to
set them gabbling. And think—think of the power for good that
deed would give you. By it you could reform my unruly house-
hold, rid it altogether of the laxity and profusion that have so
long vexed your tender soul.
TARTUFFE: It would indeed give me great opportunities.
ORGON: Hal You admit that. Then is it not your duty to accept—
for their sakes and mine?
TARTUFFE: I had not looked on it in that light before. It may be
even as you say.
ORGON: It is so. Brother, their salvation is in your hands. Can you
leave them to perish utterly?
168 CONFLICT

TARTUFFE : Your arguments have overcome me, dear friend. I did

wrong to hesitate.
ORGON: Then you accept the trust?
TARTUFFE: The will of heaven be done in this as in all other things.
I accept. [He puts the deed in his breast.]
There is no conflict so far, but we know that not only
Orgon, the dupe, will be ruined by this deed, but his lovable
and decent family also. We'll watch with bated breath how
TartufFe will use this newly acquired power. This scene really
is a preparation for conflict: foreshadowing conflict.
We are confronted here with a different rising conflict
than we have heretofore expounded. Which approach is bet-
ter? The answer is: either is good if it helps the conflict to
rise. Moliere achieved his rising conflict by welding the family
together to defeat Tartuffe (group against group). Tar tuff e's
reluctance to accept Orgon's offer is hypocritical and weak.
It is really no conflict at all. But the very offer of Orgon to
transfer his fortune to Tartuffe constitutes the tension and
foreshadows a death struggle between him and the family.
Come back to Ghosts for a moment. Manders says:
Ah! There we have the outcome of your reading. Fine fruit it has
borne—this abominable, subversive, free-thinking literaturel
If Mrs. Alving answered, "Really?" or "What affair is it of
yours?" or "What do you know about books?" or anything of
the kind which would rebuke Manders without attacking
him, the conflict would at once be static. But she answers:
You are wrong there, my. friend.
She gives a general denial, first, adding irony with "my
friend." The next sentence is a bombshell, carrying the at-
tack to enemy territory. It is a body blow, almost paralyzing.
You are the one who made me begin to think, and I owe you my
best thanks for it.
RISING 169

Manders' "II" is equivalent to "Ouch!" in the ring, or even

"Foul!"
Mrs. Alving follows up her advantage, showering blows
on the unfortunate Manders, winding up with an upper-
cut which just misses its mark. If Mrs. Alving had succeeded
in annihilating her antagonist, the play would have been
over. But Manders is not a mean fighter, either. When he
is staggered he spars to get his wind back, and then counter-
attacks fiercely. This is rising conflict.
MRS. ALVING: Call it rather the most ignominious defeat of your
life.
(The blow that glanced off Manders' chin.)
MANDERS: [sparring] It was the greatest victory of my life, Helen.
Victory over myself.
MRS. ALVING: [tired but game] It was a wrong done to both of us.
MANDERS: [seeing an opening, rushes in] A wrong? Wrong for me
to entreat you as a wife to go back to your lawful husband when
you came to me, half distracted, and cried, "Here I am. Take
me." Was that wrong?

The conflict is still going higher and higher, revealing

the characters' inmost feelings; the forces that made them
act as they did; the position in which they now stand; the
direction in which they are going. Each character has a well-
defined premise in life. They know what they want—and
fight for it.
Eugene O'Neill's Mourning Becomes Electra is a splendid
example of rising conflict. The only trouble is that the char-
acters, although involved in a death struggle, are not deeply
motivated.
If you read the synopsis at the end of this book, you will
find a dynamic, irresistible force driving the characters toward
their inevitable end—Lavinia to revenge her father, and
Christine to free herself from her husband's bondage.
170 CONFLICT

Conflict comes in waves, rising higher and higher to an

awesome crescendo, overwhelming in its power—until we
start to scrutinize the characters. Then, to our sorrow, we
realize that all this blood and thunder was just sham. We
can't believe them. They weren't living people. They were
the creation of an author who has extraordinary vitality and
power to make them behave as conscious living beings should.
But the moment he leaves them alone they collapse from the
sheer weight of their existence.
The characters go relentlessly where the author tells them
to go. They have no will of their own. Lavinia hates her
mother with a cold hate because that will create conflict.
She finds out things about her father which would mitigate
her fierce protective love for him, but she dismisses it as
something nonexistent. She had to, if she was to go through
with the part the author assigned to her.
Captain Brent hates the Mannons because they let his
mother starve to death. But that he left her himself for years,
abandoning her to her fate, is not important either. The
conflict has to go on.
Christine hates her husband because her love turned to
hate, and she kills him. But what made this love turn to
hate? The author never explains.
O'Neill has a good reason not to divulge his secret: he
doesn't know himself. He has no premise.
He imitated the Greek pattern. He thought if he substi-
tuted Fate instead of premise, he would secure a driving force
which would match the classics of the Hellenic drama. He
failed, because the Greek dramas have premise under the
disguise of Fate, whereas O'Neill has blind Fate only, with-
out a premise.
As we see, rising conflict can be achieved with superficial,
badly motivated characters also, but this is not the play we
are after. Such plays may impress us, even terrorize us, while
we are in the theater. But such plays soon become only a
MOVEMENT 171

memory because they bear no resemblance to life as we know

it. The characters are not three-dimensional.
Once more, then: rising conflict means a clear-cut premise
and unity of opposites, with three-dimensional characters.

6. Movement
It is simple enough to recognize a storm as a conflict, yet
what we experience and call "storm," or "tornado," is ac-
tually a climax, the result of hundreds and thousands of small
conflicts, each bigger and more dangerous than the last, until
they arrive at the crisis—the lull before the storm. In that
last moment the decision is made, and the storm either moves
on or breaks in all its fury.
When we think of any manifestation of nature, we are
likely to think of it as having only one possible cause. We
say that a storm starts in such and such a way, forgetting
that each storm has a different background, although the re-
sults are essentially the same, just as each death arises from
different conditions, although, in essence, death is death.
Every conflict consists of attack and counterattack, yet every
conflict differs from every other conflict. There are small,
almost inperceptible movements in every conflict—transi-
tions—which determine the type of rising conflict you will
employ. These transitions, in their turn, are determined by
the individual characters. If a character is a slow thinker, or
sluggish, his transition will affect the conflict by its resultant
sluggishness; and since no two individuals ever think exactly
alike, no two transitions, and no two conflicts, will ever be
identical.
Let us watch Nora and Helmer for a while. Let us see the
motivation that they themselves do not know. Why does Nora
assent when that clinches Helmer's argument against her?
What goes into a simple sentence?
172 CONFLICT

Helmer has just found out about the forgery. He is in a

rage.
HELMER: Miserable creature—what have you done?
(This is not an attack. He knows quite well what she has
done, but is too horrified to believe it. He is struggling with
himself and needs a breathing spell. But the line foreshadows
a vicious attack to come.)
NORA: Let me go. You shall not suffer for my sake. You shall not
take it upon yourself.
(And this is not a counterattack, yet the conflict continues
to rise. She is not yet aware that Helmer has no intention of
taking the blame upon himself, nor does she fully realize
that he is angry with her. He has flared up, she knows, but
he does not mean it. She retains that last shred of naivete
which makes her so appealing in the face of the onrushing
danger. This is not a fighting sentence, then, but a transition
which helps the conflict rise.)
If we did not know Helmer, his character, his moral
scruples, his fanatical honesty, Nora's struggle with Krog-
stad would not be conflict at all. There would be nothing to
look forward to. The one question would be who will out-
smart whom. The small movement, then, becomes important
only in its relation to the big movement.
Hay Fever is a play which offers material for illustration.
The scene we have taken from it contains no big move-
ments. There is nothing at stake, nothing to make the little
movements important. If one character loses out there is no
harm done—tomorrow is another day. The fact that this is
a comedy is no excuse for so serious a flaw—as proved by the
further fact that this is not a good comedy.
The parenthetical comments after each speech—attack,
rise, counterattack—indicate that speech's potentialities for
development into each conflict.
MOVEMENT 173

From Hay Fever, by Noel Coward:

(A family, consisting of a charming mother who is a retired
actress, a charming father who is a novelist, and two charm-
ing children who are just charming, has invited guests for
the week end. Mother Judith has invited her latest. Father
David has invited his latest, Daughter Sorel has invited her
latest, and Son Simon has invited guess who. They quarrel
about sleeping arrangements until the guests arrive—four
ordinary people who serve as stooges for the family.)
SOREL: I should have thought you'd be above encouraging silly,
shallow young men who are infatuated by your name. [Attack.']
JUDITH: That may be true, but I shall allow no one but myself to
say it. I hoped you'd grow up a good daughter to me, not a criti-
cal aunt. [Counterattack. Rise.]
SOREL: It's so terribly cheap. [Attack. Rise.]
JUDITH: Cheap? Nonsense. What about your diplomatist? [Coun-
terattack.]
SOREL: Surely that's a little different, dear? [Static]
JUDITH: If you mean that because you happen to be a vigorous
ingenue of nineteen you have the complete monopoly of any
amorous adventure there may be about, I feel it my firm duty to
disillusion you. [Attack.]
SOREL: But, Mother— [.Rue.]
JUDITH: Anyone would think I was eighty the way you go on. It
was a great mistake not sending you to boarding schools, and
you coming back and my being your elder sister. [Static]
SIMON: It wouldn't have been any use; everyone knows we're your
son and daughter. [Static]
JUDITH: Only because I was stupid enough to dandle you about in
front of cameras when you were little. I knew I should regret it.
[Static]
SIMON: I don't see any point in trying to be younger than you are.
[Attack. Rise.]
JUDITH: At your age, dear, it would be indecent if you did. [Coun-
terattack.]
SOREL: But, Mother dear, don't you see, it's awfully undignified for
you to go flaunting about with young men. [Attack.]
174 CONFLICT

JUDITH: I don't flaunt about, I never have. I've been morally an

extremely nice woman, all my life, more or less, and if dabbling
gives me pleasure I don't see why I shouldn't dabble. [Static]
SOREL: But it oughtn't give you pleasure any more. [Attack.]
JUDITH: You know, Sorel, you grow more damnably feminine every
day. I wish I'd brought you up differently. [Counterattack.]
SOREL: I'm proud of being feminine. [Attack.]
JUDITH: You're a darling and I adore you [kissing her], and you're
very pretty and I'm madly jealous of you. [Static]
SOREL: Are you really, how lovely. [Static]
JUDITH: YOU will be nice to Sandy, won't you? [Static]
SOREL: Can't he sleep in "little hell"? [Static]
JUDITH: My dear, he's frightfully athletic and all those water pipes
will sap his vitality. [Static]
SOREL: They'll sap Richard's vitality too. [Static]
JUDITH: He won't notice them, he's probably used to scorching
tropical embassies with punkahs waving and everything. [Static]
SIMON: He's sure to be deadly anyhow. [Static]
1
SOREL: You're getting too blase and exclusive, Simon. [Jump.]
SIMON: Nothing of the sort, only I loathe being hearty with your
men friends. [Attack.]
SOREL: You've never been civil to any of my friends, men or women.
[Counterattack.]
SIMON: Anyhow, the Japanese room's a woman's room, and a
woman ought to have it. [Static even for the transition it is in-
tended to be.]
JUDITH: I promised it to Sandy—he loves everything Japanese.
[Static]
SIMON: So does Myra. [Jump.]
JUDITH: Myra! [Rise.]
SIMON: Myra Arundel, I've asked her down. [Rise.]
JUDITH: You've what? [Rise.]

Surprisel Surprise! Nobody but the audience suspected

that Simon might have invited someone too. This is the point
which was reached by the scene—a clear waste of several pages
because there is no big movement to give meaning to the
small movements. There is not much transition, either, due
MOVEMENT 175
to the transparency and two-dimensionality of the characters.
You wish to start an automobile—this is your premise.
First you ignite the gas. A drop of gasoline will explode. If
for any reason there is no further explosion (conflict), the
car will remain static (as will your play). But if the gasoline
flows freely, one explosion will set off another explosion (con-
flict creates conflict) and the engine will vibrate with a steady
hum. The car (and your play) is moving.
The many small explosions will move the car ahead. Not
one, or two, but many explosions are necessary to start the
big movement of the wheels.
In a play, each conflict causes the one after it. Each is
more intense than the one before. The play moves, propelled
by the conflict created by the characters in their desire to
reach their goal: the proof of the premise.
But let's go back to our old friends, Nora and Helmer.
Let us see how their conflict moves and changes.
HELMER: NO tragedy airs, please. [Locks the hall door] Here you
shall stay and give me an explanation. Do you understand what
you have done? Answer me. Do you understand what you have
done?

(The lines suggest the increasing tempo. The locking of

the door adds weight to his words. The whole speech is an
attack.)
NORA: [Looks steadily at him and says with a growing look of cold-
ness in her face] Yes, now I am beginning to understand thor-
oughly.
(Nora's answer is not a counterattack. True, attack and
counterattack is the most direct, the shortest method of build-
ing a conflict. But it cannot be employed exclusively through-
out a play without becoming tiresome and without ending
the play far too rapidly.
/Nora's answer is negative, but we must understand why.
176 CONFLICT

She is refusing to obey her lord's impatient demand for an

explanation. She explains nothing, but there is the first ray
of awakening in her answer, the first sign that Helmer will
receive more than he bargained for. Is Nora's line a fighting
one, then? Definitely. The coldness, the tone, give warning
of danger ahead. But Helmer, in his fury, does not see it.
Step by step he drives himself into an uncontrollable rage.)

HELMER: [walking about the room] What a horrible awakeningl

All these eight years—she who was my joy and pride—a hypo-
crite, a liar—worse, worse—a criminal I The unutterable ugli-
ness of it all! For shame! For shame! [Nora is silent and looks
steadily at him. He stops in front of her.]

(Helmer's attack is now so vicious that any interruption on

Nora's part would kill the effect Ibsen has achieved. Her
silence is sufficiently eloquent and speaks for her better than
any line even a Shakespeare might conceive.
We see then that the conflict becomes a variation on the
straight attack, counterattack. Nora's silence is a subtle
counterattack, in that it is resistance in preparation for ac-
tion.)
HELMER: I ought to have suspected that something of the sort would
happen. I ought to have foreseen it. All your father's want of
principle—be silent!—all your father's want of principle has
come out in you. No religion, no morality, no sense of duty.
Now I am punished for having winked at what he did! I did it
for your sake, and this is how you repay me.
(Helmer's attack is direct, overwhelming. Nora's answer is
interesting.)
NORA: Yes, that's just it.
(Her agreement proves his point—but there is a reason. She
wishes to leave. She sees for the first time that the past eight
years have been a bad dream. Her answer is negative again
MOVEMENT »77

—not an orthodox counterattack, but the first sign of an

awakening resistance. Moreover, it serves to infuriate Hel-
mer. The man who wishes to fight and finds no opponent
becomes increasingly dangerous. We do not wish to imply
that Nora's intention is to anger her husband. On the con-
trary. She sees, now, the hopelessness of life with him. She
agrees because she is strengthened in her determination to
leave, and because-what he says is true, but only now does
she see the implications of the truth. Ibsen uses her state to
further the conflict.)
As we read on we see how Helmer, with overpowering
arguments, tramples Nora down. The battle seems one-sided
—seems like a prize fight in which one fighter showers blows
on an apparently defenseless opponent. But Nora, instead
of weakening, is waiting her turn patiently. Every blow
strengthens her position, and her resistance is a counterattack
in itself.
This type of conflict differs from that which we discussed
earlier. It is different, but no less effective.

QUESTION: It is effective, all right, but I see no "difference."

ANSWER: DO you remember the scene we quoted from Ghosts?
The scene between Manders and Mrs. Alving contained
all the elements of direct conflict. The entire play was
written on that line—attack, counterattack—with few ex-
ceptions. Yet we cannot make a flat statement to the effect
that all superior plays should be built on that principle,
because it was successful in Ghosts.
QUESTION: Why not?
ANSWER: Because the situation and the characters are not the
same. Every conflict must be treated with regard to the
characters and the situation involved. Ghosts starts at a
high pitch. Mrs. Alving is a bitter person, worldly-wise, disil-
lusioned. She is exactly the opposite of the gullible, spoiled,
childlike Nora. These characters will certainly generate
178 CONFLICT

different kinds of conflict. Mrs. Alving's conflict comes at

the beginning of the play, and arises from her patience,
her efforts to keep up appearances. Nora's big conflict comes
at the end of the play, and arises from her ignorance of
money matters. Certainly they require different treatment.
But, although the type of conflict varies with the characters,
there must be conflict throughout.

7. Foreshadowing Conflict
If you feel that you must read your script to a relative or
friend, do so. But don't ask him to comment on it. He may
know infinitely less than you do and is likely to do more harm
than good. He does not have the qualifications needed to give
expert advice, and you will be forcing him into an unfortunate
and painful position.
If you must read your work to someone, ask that person
to tell you the moment he begins to feel tired or bored. It
denotes lack of conflict; lack of conflict is a dead give-away
that your characters are badly orchestrated. They are not
militant; they do not have unity of opposites, and there is
no uncompromising pivotal character in your composition.
If all these are missing, then you have no unified work,—just
an accumulation of words.
You may argue that your audience is not on the high in-
tellectual level that your writing demands for intelligent ap-
preciation. What then? Will the above statement still stand?
Yes, it still stands because the more intelligent the person
the quicker he will be bored, if he can't detect a foreshadow-
ing conflict from the very beginning.
Conflict is the heartbeat of all writing. No conflict ever
existed without first foreshadowing itself. Conflict is that
titanic atomic energy whereby one explosion creates a chain
of explosions.

J
FORESHADOWING CONFLICT 179

There never was a night without a twilight; a morning

without a dawn; a winter without an autumn; a summer with-
out a spring first; they all foreshadow a coming event. The
foreshadowing is not necessarily the same. In fact, there
never were two springs or two twilights alike.
A play without conflict creates the atmosphere of desola-
tion, the imminence of decomposition.
Without conflict life would not be possible on earth, or,
for that matter, anywhere in the universe. The technique of
writing is only a replica of the universal law which governs
an atom or a constellation above us.
Set any two fanatics or groups against each other and you
will foreshadow conflict of breathtaking intensity.

The motion picture, Thirty Seconds over Tokyo, perfectly

illustrates what we have in mind. The first two-thirds of the
picture was devoid of any conflict whatsoever and still the
audience sat through it as if hypnotized. What happened?
What magic did the authors weave over the audience to ar-
rest their eternal restlessness? It is really very simple. They
foreshadowed conflict.
An officer tells the assembled fliers: "Boys, you're all volun-
teers to perform an exceedingly dangerous mission. It is so
dangerous that it would be best for the safety of all of you not
to discuss your possible destination even among yourselves."
This warning is the springboard for the story. Then the
characters busy themselves with a long-drawn-out training
program for their promised dangerous journey ahead.
Foreshadowing is really promising; in our case, conflict.
Whether in this particular story the prolonged waiting
was justified or not is beside the point. The important thing
to remember is that the audience remained breathless and
waited for two hours for that foreshadowed thirty seconds over
Tokyo.
When a well-matched pair of fighters face each other in
180 CONFLICT

the ring, the expectation runs high. The same thing goes for
the stage.
This is true, you admit, but how can you line up strong
uncompromising characters on the stage, foreshadowing con-
flict at the very beginning of a play or story?
We think this is the easiest job a writer has to face. Take
Helmer in A Doll's House, for instance. His uncompromising
attitude toward the slightest delinquency foreshadows trou-
ble with the certainty of death. What will he do when he
discovers that Nora forged a signature on his behalf? Will
he relent? We don't know. One thing is certain; there will
be trouble. Any uncompromising character could create the
same expectancy.
The six dead soldiers in Bury the Dead protest against in-
justice. .Their very act foreshadows conflict. (They are un-
compromising.)
Foreshadowing conflict is really tension in theatrical par-
lance.
The public generally calls psychology "common sense,"
or "horse sense." Any author who underestimates the "horse
sense" of his audience, will face a rude awakening.
A man who never heard of Freud will pass judgment on
your play while sitting alongside of a trained critic. If your
play lacks conflict no subterfuge or slick dialogue will in-
fluence this primitive member of your audience. He knows
the play is bad. How? He was bored. His horse sense, his in-
born quality to differentiate between good and bad, told him
so. He fell asleep, didn't he? This is a sure sign the play is
bad as far as he is concerned. To us his reaction means the
play lacked conflict, or even the foreshadowing of conflict.
People distrust strangers. Only in conflict can you "prove"
yourself. In conflict your true self is revealed. On the stage,
as well as in life, every one is a stranger who does not first
"prove" himself. A person who stands by you in adversity
is a proven person. No, you cannot fool the audience. Even
FORESHADOWING CONFLICT »8l

an illiterate knows that politeness and smart talk are not

signs of sincerity or friendship. But sacrifice is. Again, fore-
shadowing any quality of a character is as necessary as breath-
ing to a man.
Now, if you foreshadow conflict you're promising the very
substance of existence. Since most of us play possum and hide
our true selves from the world, we are interested in witnessing
the things happening to those who are forced to reveal their
true characters under the stress of conflict. Foreshadowing
conflict is not conflict yet, but we are eagerly waiting for the
fulfillment of the promise of it. In conflict we are forced to
reveal ourselves. It seems that self-revelation of others or our-
selves holds a fatal fascination for everyone.
We don't think it is necessary to sell the idea to writers
that foreshadowing is an absolute must. The important and
most difficult thing is how to use it. In Waiting for Lefty, by
Clifford Odets, for instance, the very first line promised a
mounting tension.
Fatt: You're so wrong I ain't laughing.
Fatt and the gangsters on the platform are against a strike.
The audience members,—characters in the play,—are for the
strike.
Poverty forces the would-be strikers to do something for
themselves. They're bitter, determined. They're starving.
They have nothing to lose. They have to strike if they want
to live.
On the other hand, there is Fatt and the gangster boys.
If the union goes on strike, the gunmen will lose their useful-
ness. You see, they're not ordinary gangsters. They are worse.
They represent crooked union leadership. The fat union
dues will be lost to them if a strike is called. This strike is
not just a plain, everyday strike—it is a revolution.
Both sides are on the verge of losing or winning everything.
The very determined set-up between these people creates
tension, which, in our lingo foreshadows conflict.
l82 CONFLICT

Unrelenting people facing each other in a show-down fight

foreshadows merciless conflict to the bitter end.
Determined foes, under no circumstances, can or will
compromise. One must destroy the other in order to live. Add
this all up; it certainly foreshadows conflict.

8. Point of Attack
When should the curtain rise? What is point of attack?
When the curtain goes up, the audience wishes to know as
soon as possible who these people on the stage are, what they
want, why they are there. What is the relationship between
them? But the characters in some plays prattle a long time be-
fore we are given a chance to know who they are and what they
want.
In George and Margaret, a mediocre play of the '30's, the
author spends 40 pages introducing us to the family. Then we
have a hint on page 46 that one of the sons was seen going
into the maid's room. The subject is then dropped. The
family life moves in a well-oiled groove. Everyone is a little
touched in the head. No one gives a hoot about anybody else,
and on page 82, at last, we find out definitely that one of the
sons was in the maid's room. Nothing serious, you know—
just a casual affair.
Although the characters are well drawn—like good char-
coal drawings—we wondered why they were on the stage.
What did they hope to accomplish? The play is a slightly
exaggerated but meticulously drawn portrait of the family
in repose. The author knows how to draw, but lacks even an
elementary knowledge of composition.
It is pointless to write about a person who doesn't know
what he wants, or wants something only halfheartedly. Even
if a person knows what he wants, but has no internal and
POINT OF ATTACK 183

external necessity to achieve this desire immediately, that

character will be a liability to your play.
What makes a character start a chain of events which might
destroy him or help him to succeed? There is only one an-
swer: necessity. There must be something at stake—some-
thing pressingly important.
If you have one or more characters of this kind, your
point of attack cannot but be good.
A play might start exactly at the point where a conflict will
lead up to a crisis.
A play might start at a point where at least one character
has reached a turning point in his life.
A play might start with a decision which will precipitate
conflict.
A good point of attack is where something vital is at stake
at the very beginning of a play.
The beginning of Oedipus Rex is Oedipus' decision to
find the murderer. In Hedda Gabler, Hedda's contempt for
her husband and all he stands for is a good start. She is so
positive in her contempt that it amounts to a decision not
to be satisfied with anything the poor man does. Knowing
Tesman's character, we wonder how long he will stand for
the abuse. We wonder if his love will cause him to submit,
or if he will rebel.
In Antony and Cleopatra we hear Antony's soldiers worry-
ing over Cleopatra's domination of their general. We see im-
mediately the conflict between his love and his leadership.
Their meeting came when his career was at its height; it
proves the turning point of that career. As a member of the
triumvirs, he had summoned her to answer for her conduct in
aiding Cassius and Brutus in the war in which they were de-
feated. Antony is the accuser, Cleopatra the defendant, but
he falls in love with her, against his and Rome's interests.
In each of these plays—in every work which one can un-
184 CONFLICT

blushingly call a play—the curtain rises when at least one

character has reached a turning point in his life.
In Macbeth a general hears a prophecy that he will be-
come king. It preys on his mind until he kills the rightful
king. The play starts when Macbeth begins to covet the king-
ship (turning point).
Once in a Lifetime starts when the leading characters de-
cide to break with their former activities and go to Holly-
wood. (This is a turning point because their savings are at
stake.)
Bury the Dead starts when six dead soldiers decide not to
let themselves be buried. (Turning point—the happiness
of mankind is at stake.)
Room Service begins when the hotel manager decides that
his brother-in-law must pay the bill which has been run up
by his theatrical company. (Turning point—his job is in
danger.)
They Shall Not Die starts when the sheriff convinces two
girls that they should accuse the Scottsboro boys of rape.
They decide to tell the hideous lie in order to escape going
to jail for various offenses. (Turning point—their freedom is
at stake.)
Liliom starts when the hero turns against his employees
and, against his better judgment, goes to live with a little
servant girl. (Turning point—his job is in danger.)
The Tragedy of Man, by Madach, begins when Adam
breaks his promise to the Lord and eats of the forbidden
fruit. (Turning point—his happiness is in danger.)
Faust, by Goethe, starts when Faust sells his soul to Lucifer.
(Turning point—his soul is in danger.)
The Guardsman starts when the actor-husband, driven by
jealousy, decides to impersonate a guardsman and test his
wife's fidelity. The point of attack is that point at which a
character must make a momentous decision.
POINT OF ATTACK 185

QUESTION: What is a momentous decision?

ANSWER: One that constitutes a turning point in the char-
acter's life.
QUESTION: Yet there are plays which do not begin that way
—Schnitzler's plays, for instance.
ANSWER: True. We were talking about plays in which the
movement covers all the steps between two opposing poles,
as, let us say, love and hate. Between these two poles
there are many steps. You might decide to utilize one,
two, or three steps only in that big movement, but even
then you have to have a decision to start with. Necessarily
the type of decision or just preparation for a decision can-
not be as sweeping as in the big movement. Look in
the chapter on transition, and you'll see that before one
can arrive at a decision there are minutiae: doubts, hopes,
vacillations. If you wish to write a drama around a transi-
tion, utilizing this preparatory state of mind, you must
amplify these minutiae, enlarge them so that they are visi-
ble to the audience. A supreme knowledge of human be-
havior is necessary for one to write such a play.
QUESTION: Would you advise me to write such a play?
ANSWER: YOU should know your own strength, your own abil-
ity to cope with the problem.
QUESTION: In other words, you're not encouraging me.
ANSWER: Nor discouraging you. It is our function to tell you
how to go about writing or criticizing a play—not whether
you should choose a particular topic.
QUESTION: Fair enough. Can a play be written which is a
combination of the preparatory and the immediate-decision
types?
ANSWER: Great plays have been written in every combination.
QUESTION: NOW, let me see if I've got all this straight. We
must start a play at a point of decision, because that is the
point at which the conflict starts and the characters are
given a chance to expose themselves and the premise.
186
CONFLICT

ANSWER: Right.
QUESTION: The point of attack must be a point of decision
or preparation for a decision.
ANSWER: Yes.
QUESTION: Good orchestration and unity of opposites ensure
conflict; the point of attack starts conflict. Right?
ANSWER: Yes, go on.
QUESTION: DO you think conflict is the most vital part of a
play?
ANSWER: We think that no character can reveal himself with-
out conflict—and no conflict matters without character.
There is conflict simply in the choice of characters in
Othello. A Moor wishes to wed the daughter of a patrician
senator. Yet it would be pointless for Shakespeare to begin
with an account of identities, as Sherwood does in Idiot's
Delight, for instance. We shall learn who Othello and
Desdemona are from their courtship. Their dialogue will
tell us their backgrounds and their characters. So Shake-
speare begins with Iago, from whose character conflict
stems. In one brief scene we learn that he hates Othello,
we learn what Othello's position is and that Othello and
Desdemona have eloped. We begin, in other words, with
the knowledge of the great love between Othello and
Desdemona, with an inkling of the obstacles that love has
faced, and with a realization of Iago's intention to tear
down Othello's happiness and position. If a man contem-
plates murder, he is not particularly interesting. But if he
plots with others or alone, and decides to commit the mur-
der, the play is started. If a man tells a woman he loves her,
they can continue in that vein for hours and days. But if
he says "Let's elope," it may be the beginning of a play.
The one sentence suggests many things. Why should they
elope? If she answers, "But what about your wife?" we
have the key to the situation. If the man has the strength
POINT OF ATTACK 187

of will to go through with his decision, conflict will follow

every move he makes.
QUESTION: Why didn't Ibsen start his play when Nora was
frightened by Helmer's illness and frantically looked for
help? There was plenty of conflict while she was deciding
to forge her father's signature.
ANSWER: True. But the conflict was inside her mind, invisible.
There was no antagonist.
QUESTION: There was. Helmer and Krogstad.
ANSWER: Krogstad was very willing to lend the money just
because he knew the signature was forged. He wanted Hel-
mer in his power and placed no obstacle in Nora's way.
And Helmer is the reason for the forgery, not an obstacle
to it. The only thing he does at the time is suffer, which
encourages Nora to get the money.
Ibsen's choice of a point of attack was unfortunate in
A Doll's House. He should have started the play when
Krogstad becomes impatient and demands his money. This
pressure upon Nora reveals her character and speeds the
conflict.

A play should start with the first line uttered. The char-
acters involved will expose their natures in the course of
conflict. It is bad playwriting first to marshal your evidences,
drawing in the background, creating an atmosphere, before
you begin the conflict. Whatever your premise, whatever
the make-up of your characters, the first line spoken should
start the conflict and the inevitable drive toward the prov-
ing of the premise.

QUESTION: AS you know, I am writing a play—a one-act play.

I have my premise, my characters are lined up and orches-
trated. I have the synopsis, but still something is wrong.
There is no tension in my play.
188 CONFLICT

ANSWER: Let's here your premise.

QUESTION: Desperation leads to success.
ANSWER: Tell me the synopsis.
QUESTION: A young college boy, extremely shy, is madly in
love with a lawyer's daughter. She loves him but respects
and adores her father, too. She makes the boy understand
that if her father disapproves of him, she won't marry him.
The boy meets her father, who is a great wit and makes a
laughingstock out of the poor boy.
ANSWER: And then what?
QUESTION: She's sorry for him, and declares that she will
marry him just the same.
ANSWER: Tell me your point of attack.
QUESTION: The girl tries to persuade the boy to come to her
home to meet her father. The boy resents this interference
by the father and—
ANSWER: What's at stake?
QUESTION: The girl, of course.
ANSWER: Not true. If her marriage depends on her father's
approval, she can't be very much in love.
QUESTION: But it is the turning point in their lives.
ANSWER: HOW?
QUESTION: If the father disapproves they might be separated
and their happiness will be at stake.
ANSWER: I don't believe it. She's undecided, and therefore
she cannot be the cause of a rising conflict.
QUESTION: But there is a rising conflict. The boy resents go-
ing there—
ANSWER: Just a moment. If I remember correctly, you estab-
lished your premise as "Desperation leads to success." As you
know by now, a premise is a thumbnail synopsis of your
play. You have no tension because you have forgotten your
premise. Your premise says one thing, your synopsis an-
other. The premise indicates that someone's life is at stake,
but not the synopsis. Why not start your play in the girl's
POINT OF ATTACK 189

home, with the boy waiting for the father? The boy is
desperate, and reminds the girl what he swore to before
the curtain went up.
QUESTION: What did he swear to?
ANSWER: That he would kill himself if her father disapproved
of him, and his death would be on her conscience.
QUESTION: And then what?
ANSWER: YOU can follow your synopsis. The father is a famous
wit and very shrewd. He puts the boy through the third
degree. We know now the boy is so desperate that he is
ready to throw away his life if he fails. His very life is at
stake, and certainly this will be a turning point in his life.
Everything the father or the boy say becomes important.
After all, the boy will fight for his life and might do the
unexpected. His shyness might vanish in the face of danger,
and he might attack and confound the father. The girl is
impressed and defies her father.
QUESTION: But can't he do this without threatening to kill
himself?
ANSWER: Yes, but if I remember correctly, you were complain-
ing before that your play had no tension.
QUESTION: True.
ANSWER: It had no tension because there was nothing im-
portant at stake. The point of attack was wrong. There
are thousands of youngsters in the same predicament. Some
of them forget their infatuation after a while and others
seemingly consent to the wishes of their elders while see-
ing each other on the sly. In either case no serious thing
is at stake. They are not ready to have a play written about
them. Your lovers, on the other hand, are deadly serious.
The boy, at least, has reached a turning point in his life.
He puts everything on one card. He is worth while writing
about.
Even if your premise is good, the characters well or-
chestrated, without the right point of attack, the play will
190 CONFLICT

drag. It will drag because there was nothing vital at stake

at the beginning of the play.
No doubt you have heard the old adage: "Every story must
have a beginning, a middle and an end."
Any writer who has the nai'vet£ to take this advice seriously
is bound to run into trouble.
If it is true that every story has to have a beginning, then
every story might have started at the conception of the char-
acters and ended with their death.
You may protest that this is a too literal interpretation of
Aristotle. Perhaps it is, but many plays met their Waterloo
for the very reason that their authors, consciously or other-
wise, obeyed this Aristotelian dictum.
Hamlet did not start when the curtain went up. Far from
it. A murder had been committed before, and the murdered
man's ghost had just come back to demand justice.
This play opens, then, not in the beginning, but in the
middle, after a dastardly act had been committed first.
You may argue that Aristotle meant that even the "middle"
must have a beginning and an end. Perhaps, but if that is what
he wanted to say, he certainly could have expressed himself
more clearly than he did.
Doll's House did not start when Helmer was taken ill, nor
when Nora frantically tried to get money to save his life. The
play did not start even when Nora forged her father's signature
to secure money, nor when Helmer returned home jobless,
after recuperating. No, the play did not start during the years
Nora pinched to repay the loan. The play actually started
when Krogstad found out that Helmer was being given the
job as manager of the bank. Then Krogstad started his black-
mail, and with this, the play.
Romeo and Juliet did not start when the Montagues and
Capulets started their feud. The play did not start when
Romeo fell in love with Rosalind, but when Romeo, defying
POINT OF ATTACK 191

death, went to the home o£ the Capulets and saw Juliet, the
play really began.
Ghosts did not start when Mrs. Alving left her husband
and went to Manders, offering herself to him and imploring
help; nor when Regina's mother became pregnant through
Captain Alving. The play did not start when Captain Alving
died. It really started when Oswald came home, broken in
body and spirit, and the ghost of his father started to haunt
them again.
An author must find a character who wants something so
desperately that he can't wait any longer. His needs are im-
mediate.
Why? You have your story or play the moment you can
answer authoritatively why this man must do something so
urgently and immediately. Whatever it is, the motivation
must have grown out of what happened before the story
started. In fact, your story is possible only because it grew out
of the very thing that happened before.
It is imperative that your story starts in the middle, and
not under any circumstances, at the beginning.
192 CONFLICT

9. Transition

Two or three billion years ago, the earth was a ball of fire,
revolving around its own axis. It took millions of years to
cool under the constant downpour of rain. The process was
slow, imperceptible, but the gradual change—transition—
came to pass, the crust of the earth hardened; great cata-
clysms pushed up hills, created valleys and ravines through
which rivers could flow. Then came the unicellular forms
of life, and the globe began to swarm with living things.
Near the botton of the scale of life are the plants called
thallogens, which lack proper stems and leaves. After these
come the acrogens, or flowerless plants, such as the ferns which
possess stems and leaves. Farther up are the flowering plants,
then the polycotyledonous trees, and then what are known
as our "forest trees" and fruit-bearing trees.
Nature never jumps. She works in a leisurely manner, ex-
perimenting continuously. The same natural transition can
be seen in mammals.
The gap between terrestrial and aquatic mammals is bridged by
the muskrat, beavers, otters and seals, which are more or less
equally at home on land and in water,
says Woodruff in Animal Biology.

There are connecting links between the fish and the mam-
mal; between the bird and the mammal; between the cave
man and man today. The gradual change, transition, works
everywhere, silently building storms and destroying solar sys-
tems. It helps the human embryo to become an infant, an
adolescent, a young man, a middle-aged man, an old man.
TRANSITION 193

Leonardo da Vinci writes in his Notebooks:

. . . And this old man, a few hours before his death, told me
that he had lived a hundred years, and that he did not feel any
bodily ailment other than weakness, and thus, while sitting up on
a bed in the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova at Florence, without
any movement or sign of anything amiss, he passed away from this
life. And I made an autopsy in order to ascertain the cause of so
peaceful a death, and found that it proceeded from weakness
through failure of blood and of the artery that feeds the heart
and the other lower members, which I found to be very parched
and shrunk and withered; and the result of this autopsy I wrote
down very carefully and with great ease, for the body was devoid of
either fat or moisture, and these form the chief hindrance to the
knowledge of its parts. . . . The old who enjoy good health die
through lack of sustenance. And this is brought about by the pas-
sage to the mesaraic veins becoming continually restricted by the
thickening of the skin of these veins [hardening of the arteries—
L.E.]: and the process continues until it affects the capillary veins
which are the first to close up altogether; and from this it comes
to pass that the old dread the cold more than the young, and that
those who are very old have their skin the color of wood or of dried
chestnut, because this is almost completely deprived of sustenance.
Here, too, transition works stealthily. The arteries are
gradually blocked, through the years, the skin withers and
loses its natural color.
There are two main poles in every life: birth and death.
In between there is transition:
birth—childhood
childhood—adolescence
adolescence—youth
youth-—manhood
manhood—middle age
middle age—old age
old age—death.
Now let us see the transition between friendship and
murder:
194 CONFLICT

friendship—disappointment
disappointment—annoyance
annoyance—irritation
irritation—anger
anger—assault
assault—threat (to greater harm)
threat—premeditation
premeditation—murder.
Between "friendship" and "disappointment," for instance,
as between the others, there are still other smaller poles with
their own transitions.
If your play will go from love to hate, you have to find all
the steps leading up to hate.
If you try to leap from "friendship" to "anger," you neces-
sarily leave out "disappointment" and "annoyance." This is
a jump, because you left out two steps which belong to the
dramatic construction as your lungs or liver belong to your
body.
Here is a scene from Ghosts where transition is handled in
a masterly fashion. Manders, the priest, is greatly incensed
against Engstrand, the lovable but incurable liar. Manders
feels that he must even his score, once and for all, with this
man who has misused his credulity.
The probable transitions will be:
anger—repudiation
or
anger—forgiveness.
Knowing Manders' character, one knows that he will for-
give. Watch the natural, smooth transition in this small con-
flict:
ENGSTRAND: [Appears in the doorway] I humbly beg pardon, but—
MANDERS: Ahal Hml—
MRS. ALVING: Oh, it's you, Engstrand!
ENGSTRAND: There were none of the maids about, so I took the
great liberty of knocking.
TRANSITION 195

MRS. ALVING: That's all right. Come in. Do you want to speak to
me?
ENGSTRAND: [Coming in] No, thank you very much, ma'am. It was
Mr. Manders I wanted to speak to for a moment.
MANDERS: [Stopping in front of him] Well, may I ask what it is you
want?
ENGSTRAND: It's this way, Mr. Manders. We are being paid off now.
And many thanks to you, Mrs. Alving. And now the work is
quite finished, I thought it would be so nice and suitable if all
of us, who have worked so honestly together all this time, were
to finish up with a few prayers this evening.

(The consummate liar! He wants something from Manders,

and knowing he can be approached only through piety, offers
to pray.)

MANDERS: Prayers? Up at the orphanage?

ENGSTRAND: Yes, sir, but if it isn't agreeable to you, then—

(He is willing to withdraw. It is enough that Manders knows

he has the good intention.)

MANDERS: Oh, certainly, but—hml—

(Poor Manders! He was so angry—but what can one do when

the object of his wrath approached him for prayer?)

ENGSTRAND: I have made a practice of saying a few prayers there

myself each evening—
MRS. ALVING: Have you?

(Mrs. Alving knows too well his true color. She knows he is
lying.)

ENGSTRAND: Yes, ma'am, now and then—just as a little edification,

so to speak. But I am only a poor common man, and haven't
rightly the gift, alas—and so I thought that as Mr. Manders
happened to be here, perhaps—
MANDERS: Look here, Engstrand. First of all I must ask you a ques-
196 CONFLICT

tion. Are you in a proper frame of mind for such a thing? Is

your conscience free and untroubled?

(Manders wasn't entirely taken in by Engstrand's hypocritical

clamor for prayer.)

ENGSTRAND: Heaven have mercy on me a sinner] My conscience

isn't worth our speaking about, Mr. Manders.
MANDERS: But it is just what we must think about. What do you
say to my question?
ENGSTRAND: My conscience? Well—it's uneasy sometimes, of course.
MANDERS: Ah, you admit that at all events. Now will you tell me,
without any concealment—what is your relationship to Regina?

(Engstrand always maintained that Regina was his daughter,

when in reality she is the illegitimate child of the departed
Captain Alving. Engstrand received seventy pounds to over-
look this deficiency in his wife when he married her.)

MRS. ALVING: [Hastily] Mr. Mandersl

MANDERS: [Calming her] Leave it to me!
ENGSTRAND: With Regina? Good Lord, how you frightened me!
[Looks at Mrs. Alving] There is nothing wrong with Regina, is
there?
MANDERS: Let us hope not. What I want to know is, what is your
relationship to her? You pass as her father, don't you?
ENGSTRAND: [Unsteadily] Well—hm!—you know, sir, what hap-
pened between me and my poor Joanna.
MANDERS: NO more distortion of the truth! Your late wife made a
full confession to Mrs. Alving, before she left her service.
ENGSTRAND: What!—do you mean to say—? Did she do that after
all?
MANDERS: YOU see it has all come out, Engstrand.
ENGSTRAND: DO you mean to say that she, who gave me her solemn
oath—
MANDERS: Did she take an oath?
ENGSTRAND: Well, no—she only gave me her word, but as seriously
as a woman could.
TRANSITION 197

MANDERS: And all these years you have been hiding the truth from
me—from me, who have had such complete and absolute faith
in you.
ENGSTRAND: I am sorry to say I have, sir.
MANDERS: Did I deserve that from you, Engstrand? Haven't I been
always ready to help you in word and deed as far as it lay in my
power? Answer mel Is it not so?
ENGSTRAND: Indeed there's many a time I should have been very
badly off without you, sir.
MANDERS: And this is the way you repay me—by causing me to
make false entries in the church registers, and afterwards keep-
ing back from me for years the information which you owed it
both to me and to your sense of the truth to divulge. Your con-
duct has been absolutely inexcusable, Engstrand, and from to-
day everything is at an end between us.
ENGSTRAND: [With a sigh] Yes, I can see that's what it means.
MANDERS: Yes, because how can you possibly justify what you did?
ENGSTRAND: Was the poor girl to go and increase her load of shame
by talking about it? Just suppose, sir, for a moment, that your
reverence was in the same predicament as my poor Joanna—
MANDERS: II

(And he will be in a similarly shameful position later. The

scene has a direct bearing on his future conduct.)

ENGSTRAND: Good Lord, sir, I don't mean the same predicament,

I mean, suppose there were something your reverence were
ashamed of in the eyes of the world, so to speak. We men
oughtn't to judge a poor woman too harshly, Mr. Manders.
MANDERS: But I am not doing so at all. It is you I am blaming.
ENGSTRAND: Will your reverence grant me leave to ask you a small
question?
MANDERS: Ask away.
ENGSTRAND: Shouldn't you say it was right for a man to raise up the
fallen?
MANDERS: Of course it is.
ENGSTRAND: And isn't a man bound to keep his word of honor?
MANDERS: Certainly he is, but—
198 CONFLICT

ENGSTRAND: At the time when Joanna had her misfortune with this
Englishman—or maybe he was an American or a Russian, as they
call 'em— [He was not aware that the man was Captain Alving.]
Well, sir, then she came to town. Poor thing, she had refused
me once or twice before; she only had eyes for good-looking men
in those days, and I had this crooked leg then. Your reverence
will remember how I had ventured up into a dancing saloon
where seafaring men were reveling in drunkenness and intoxi-
cation, as they say. And when I tried to exhort them to turn from
their evil ways—
MRS. ALVING: Ahem!

(This lying is sufficiently obvious to make even Mrs. Alving

utter a sound.)

MANDERS: I know, Engstrand, I know—the rough brutes threw you

downstairs. You have told me about that incident before. The
affliction to your leg is a credit to you.

(Manders is willing to swallow anything with a religious in-

tent.)

ENGSTRAND:I don't want to claim credit for it, your reverence. But
what I wanted to tell you was that she came there and confided
in me with tears and gnashing of teeth. I can tell you, sir, it
went to my heart to hear her.
MANDERS: Did it indeed, Engstrand? Well, what then?

(Manders is beginning to forget that he is angry, and transi-

tion starts.)

ENGSTRAND: Well, then I said to her, "The American is roaming

about on the high seas, he is. And you, Joanna," I said, "you
have committed a sin and are a fallen woman. But here stands
Jacob Engstrand," I said, "on two strong legs,"—of course that
was only speaking in a kind of metaphor, as it were, your rev-
erence.
MANDERS: I quite understand. Go on.
ENGSTRAND: Well, sir, that was how I rescued her and made her
TRANSITION 199

my lawful wife, so that no one should know how recklessly she

had carried on with the stranger.
MANDERS: That was all very kindly done. The only thing I cannot
justify was your bringing yourself to accept the money—
ENGSTRAND: Money? I? Not a farthing.
MANDERS: But—
ENGSTRAND: Ah, yesl Wait a bit; I remember now. Joanna did have
a trifle of money, you are quite right. But I didn't want to know
anything about that. "Fie," I said, "on the mammon of un-
righteousness, it's the price of your sin; as for this tainted gold"
—or notes, or whatever it was—"we will throw it back in the
American's face," I said. But he had gone away and disappeared
on the stormy seas, your reverence.
MANDERS: Was that how it was, my good fellow?
(Manders is softening perceptibly.)
ENGSTRAND: It was, sir. So then Joanna and I decided that the
money should go toward the child's bringing up, and that's what
became of it; and I can give a faithful account of every single
penny of it.
MANDERS: This alters the complexion of the affair very consider-
ably.
ENGSTRAND: That's how it was, your reverence. And I make bold
to say that I have been a good father to Regina—as far as was
in my power—for I am a poor erring mortal, alasl
MANDERS: There, there, my dear Engstrand—
ENGSTRAND: Yes, I do make bold to say that I brought up the child,
and made my poor Joanna a loving and careful husband, as the
Bible says we ought. But it never occurred to me to go to your
reverence and claim credit for it or boast about it because I had
done one good deed in this world. No; when Jacob Engstrand
does a thing like that, he holds his tongue about it. Unfortu-
nately, it doesn't often happen, I know it only too well. And
whenever I do come to see your reverence, I never seem to have
anything but trouble and wickedness to talk about. Because, as
I said just now—and I say it again—conscience can be hard on
us sometimes.
MANDERS: Give me your hand, Jacob Engstrand.
2OO CONFLICT

The movement is complete. The poles were "anger" and

"forgiveness." In between: transition.
Both characters are absolutely clear. Engstrand, besides be-
ing a liar, is as good a psychologist as Manders is naive. Later,
when Engstrand leaves, Mrs. Alving tells Manders, "You al-
ways will remain a big baby."
Nora, however, is a baby who grows up—and we have seen
a great part of that growth in her scene with Helmer. A less
skillful writer would have turned the last scene of A Doll's
House into a grand display of fireworks—thus creating a
jumping conflict on Nora's part. We have seen Helmer's slow
development, but we have not seen Nora's in that case, and
if she were to present her intention of leaving without a
suitable period of transition, she would surprise us—and leave
us unconvinced. It is possible, in life, that such a transition
would take place in a split second of thought. But Ibsen has
translated that thought into action, so that the audience can
see and understand it.
It is possible that a person flares up instantaneously at the
very moment the insult occurred. Even then subconsciously
the person went through a mental transition. The mind re-
ceived the insult, weighed the relationship between the in-
sulter and himself; found that the insulter was an ingrate,
misused their friendship and on top of it insulted him. This
lightning review of their relationship made him resent his
attitude. Anger and explosion followed. This mental process
might have happened in a split second. The instantaneous
flare up as we see it, then, wasn't a jump, but the result of a
mental process, however quick.
Since there is no jump in nature there cannot be one on
the stage either. A good playwright will record the minute
movements of the mind as a seismograph jots down the slight-
est oscillation of the earth thousands of miles away.
Nora decided to leave Helmer after his terrific outburst
on finding the letter from Krogstad. She might have looked
TRANSITION 201

at him, in real life, horror-stricken, without saying a word.

She might have turned and walked out on the raving Helmer.
It is possible, but it would have been a jumping conflict and
bad playwriting. The author has to take all the steps which
lead to the conclusion, whether that conflict happened in just
that way or in the person's mind.
You can write a play around a single transition. The Sea
Gull and The Cherry Orchard are made of just such material,
although we have designated the poles as a single step in a
drama. Of course, such transitional plays are slow-moving,
but they contain conflict, crisis, climax, on a smaller scale.
Now, between "ambition thwarted" and "resentment,"
there is a transition. Many authors leap from one to the other
of these without a pause, feeling that the reaction is immedi-
ate. But even when the resentment is spontaneous, there is a
series of minute movements, a transition, which causes the
reaction.
It is these tiny, split-second movements with which we are
concerned. Analyze a transition and you will find that you
know the characters better.
There is a fine transition in Tartuffe, when this sublime
villain at last has the opportunity to be alone with Orgon's
wife. He has been masquerading as a saint, but at the same
time he has designs on the lovely Elmire. Let us watch him
—how will he bridge saintliness to proposal of illicit love and
at the same time remain in character?
After desiring Elmire so long, he naturally loses control of
his emotions after finding himself alone with her. He fingers
her dress absent-mindedly. But Elmire is on the alert.
ELMIRE: Monsieur Tartuffe!
TARTUFFE: Satin, unless I am mistaken? And of so deliciously soft a
texturel In such fine raiment doubtless was arrayed the Bride
of Solomon's Song when—
ELMIRE: However she was arrayed, Monsieur, can be no concern
of either of us!
202 CONFLICT

(This rebuff cools his ardor a bit, and Tartuffe becomes

more cautious.)
ELMIRE: We have other matters than lace to discuss. I want to hear
from you whether it is true that you are proposing to marry my
stepdaughter?
TARTUFFE: I would ask in return if such a marriage would incur
your disapproval.
(He moves warily now. After the first disappointment he
has to be more careful.)

ELMIRE: Why, can you possibly suppose I could approve of it?

TARTUFFE: T O say the truth, Madame, I have been led to doubt it.
And you must permit me to reassure you on that head. It is true
that Monsieur Orgon did broach this alliance to me. But, Mad-
ame, you do not need to be told that my hopes are fixed on a
far other, far higher happiness!
ELMIRE: [Relieved] Ah yes, of course. You mean that your heart is
set on joys that are not of this world.
TARTUFFE: DO not misunderstand me, or perhaps I should say, do
not affect to misunderstand me, Madame. That was not my
meaning.
(He presupposes that she has an inkling of his intention.
No jump. He goes smoothly toward his goal: to declare his
love.)
ELMIRE: Then perhaps you will tell me what you did mean.
TARTUFFE: I meant, Madame, that my heart is not of marble.
ELMIRE: And is that so remarkable?
TARTUFFE: So far is it from marble, Madame, that, however it may
aspire heavenward, it is not proof against the desire for earthly
felicity.

(He is on the way.)

ELMIRE:If it is not, it should surely be your endeavor to make it so,

Monsieur Tartuffe,
TRANSITION 203

TARTUFFE: HOW strive against the irresistible, Madame? When we

behold some perfect work of the Creator can we refrain from
worshiping Him in His own image? No—and with good reason,
for to refrain would be undevout.
(The ground is prepared. Now he can move to attack.)
ELMIRE: I see, you are a lover of nature.
TARTUFFE: An ardent one, Madame, when it takes so divine a
shape, so enchanting a beauty as in the dazzling form I am privi-
leged to behold. For a season I wrestled against your charms,
regarding them as snares set by the Evil One for my undoing.
And then it was revealed to me that, since my passion was pure,
I could indulge it without either sin or shame, and offer you a
heart so little worthy of your acceptance. But, such as it is,
Madame, I lay it at your dainty feet, and await the decision
which will either raise me to bliss unspeakable or doom me to
utter despair.

(He mitigates his audacity by envisaging his possible doom

i£ rejected. Surely, this man Tartuffe knows his psychology.)
ELMIRE: Surely, Monsieur Tartuffe, this is a somewhat surprising
outburst from one of your rigid principles!
TARTUFFE: Ah, Madame, what principles would withstand such
beauty! Alas! I am no Joseph!

(He skillfully puts the blame on her. No woman can be out-

raged if she is thought so irresistible.)

ELMIRE: TOO evidently. But neither am I a Madame Potiphar, as

you seem to be suggesting.
TARTUFFE: But you are, Madame, you are! Unconsciously, I am
willing to believe, but a temptress none the less, and one against
whom all my fastings, all my supplications on my bended knees
have availed me naught! Now at last my pent-up passion hath
burst its bounds, and I implore you for some sign that it is not
altogether disdained. Reflect that I offer you not only a devotion
without parallel, but a discretion that you may be sure will never

L
204 CONFLICT

tarnish your fair name by so much as a breath. You need have

no fear that I am one of those who boast of their good fortune.
(This very assurance of secrecy gives Tartuffe away as a
designing scoundrel. But he is in character.)
ELMIRE: And have you no fear, Monsieur Tartuffe, that I may alter
my husband's opinion of you by repeating this conversation to
him?
TARTUFFE: Madame, I think too highly of your discretion—I mean
that you have too kind a heart to injure one whose only offense
is that he is unable to help adoring you.
ELMIRE: Well, how another woman might act in my place I cannot
say, but I shall say nothing to my husband of this—incident,
Monsieur Tartuffe.
TARTUFFE: I should be the last to advise your doing so, Madame—
in the circumstances.
ELMIRE: But I shall name a price for my silence. You in return
must renounce all claim to my stepdaughter's hand—however
my husband may urge.
TARTUFFE: Ah, Madame, must I again assure you that you and you
alone—?
ELMIRE: Wait, Monsieur Tartuffe. You are to do more than that—
you are to use all your influence to bring about her marriage
with Valere.
TARTUFFE: And if I do, Madame, if I do, what may I hope for as
my reward?
ELMIRE: Why, my silence, to be sure.

(After this transition the scene naturally arrived where con-

flict had to burst forth. Damis, Orgon's son, suddenly steps
between them. Damis had overheard their conversation, and
he is outraged.)
DAMIS: NO. There should be no hushing up of this and there shall
not be, eitherl
ELMIRE: Damist
TARTUFFE: My—my dear young friend. You have mistaken an in-
nocent phrase for—!
TRANSITION 205

( T h e attack was too sudden for Tartuffe's comfort. For a

moment he lost his bearing.)

DAMIS: Mistaken! I have heard every word that was spoken, and
so shall my father. Thank heaven I am at last able to open his
eyes and make him see how vile a traitor and hypocrite he has
been harboring!
TARTUFFE: YOU do me wrong, dear young friend, you do indeed!

(It seems he is in his stride again. He withdraws into his

piousness once more.)

ELMIRE: NOW, Damis, listen to me. There must be no noise about

this—I do not wish it talked of. I have promised him my forgive-
ness on condition that he behaves himself for the future, as I am
sure he will. I cannot take back my promise. Indeed the matter
is too absurd and trifling to make a fuss about—to your father
of all people.
DAMIS: That may be your view, it is not mine. I've borne too much
from that canting square-toes there—that schemer who has
gained complete control over father, set him against both my
marriage and Valere's, and sought to turn this house into a con-
venticle. Now when I may never have so good a chance again!
ELMIRE: But, Damis, I assure you—
DAMIS: N O . I shall do as I said, make an end once and for all of
this domineering. The whip has been put in my hand, and I
shall take great joy in applying it!
ELMIRE: Damis dear, if you will only be advised by me—
DAMIS: I am sorry, but I can take no advice. Father must know
all.

(Orgon enters from doors at left.)

ORGON: [AS he enters] What is this that I must know?

T h e r e is subtle conflict in this transition, which slowly ac-

cumulates tension as it goes along and arrives to a breaking
point, in even tempo. T h e first high point is when Tartuffe
2o6 CONFLICT

openly declares his love; the second, Damis' accusation of his

treachery.
After Orgon's arrival, we can witness once more the tran-
sition in Tartuffe. The insidious acceptance of guilt seemingly
in true Christian spirit lifts him in the esteem of Orgon, and
makes him disown his son.
The conflict rises higher and higher, and between one con-
flict and the next conflict, there is perpetual transition, which
makes dynamic conflict possible.
Years ago, the father of one of our friends passed away. We
went to our friend's home after the funeral and found the
family sitting about in great gloom. The women wept, the
men stared at the floor stonily. The atmosphere was so depress-
ing that we went out for a walk. We opened the door a half-
hour later, on our return, and found the mourners in an
uproar. They were laughing merrily—but stopped abruptly
at our entrance. They were ashamed. What had happened?
How had they come to laughter from such genuine sorrow?
We have met like situations since, and found the transition
fascinating. Here is a scene from Dinner at Eight, by Kauf-
man and Ferber. We will try to trace transition in it. They
start with "irritation" and go to "rage." This is Act Three,
the last part of Scene One:
PACKARD: [Striding into the room] You've been acting damn funny
lately, my fine lady, and I'm getting good and sick of it.
KITTY: [Ruffled, not angry yet, but transition has started toward
anger] Yeah? And so what?
PACKARD: [Doesn't mean any harm. Reads the riot act as a matter
of form] I'll tell you what. I'm the works around here. I pay the
bills. And you take orders from me.
KITTY: [Considers this a challenge and counterattacks. Rising, brush
in hand hanging idly] Who do you think you're talking to? That
first wife of yours in Montana?
PACKARD: [Considers this a foul and doesn't like it] You leave her
out of this!
KITTY: [She smells blood. This is his weak point., and an old resent-
TRANSITION 207

ment kills all her caution] That poor mealy-faced thing, with
her flat chest, that never had the guts to talk up to youl
PACKARD: [Still willing to call it quits. His transition toward anger
is sluggish, has to be fed] Shut up, I tell youl
JUTTY: [Doing the feeding] Washing your greasy overalls, cooking
and slaving for you in some lousy mining shack I No wonder she
died!
PACKARD: [Becomes violently angry—a jump] God damn you!
KITTY: [Gesticulating with the hairbrush] Well, you're not going
to get me that way I You're not going to step on my face to get
where you want to go—you big windbag! [Turns away from him,
drops her hairbrush among the bottles and jars on the dressing
table.]
PACKARD: Why you cheap little piece of scum! I've got a good no-
tion to drop you right back where I picked you up, in the check-
room of the Hottentot Club, or whatever the dirty joint was.
KITTY: Oh, no you won't! [The upward movement is swift. Shortly
the transition will be complete.]
PACKARD: And then you can go home and live with your sweet-
smelling family, back of the railroad tracks in Passaic. That
drunken bum father and your jail-bird brother that I'm always
coming through for. The next time he can go to the pen, and
I'll see that he gets there.
KITTY: You'll be there ahead of him—you big crook!
PACKARD: And get this! If that sniveling, money-grubbing mother
of yours comes whining around my office once more, I'm going
to give orders to have her thrown the hell out of there and right
down sixty flights of stairs, so help me God! [Tina has entered
as Dan is almost at the end of this speech. In her hand is Kitty's
evening bag, jeweled and metallic, and containing Kitty's pow-
der compact, lipstick, cigarette case, and so forth. Finding her-
self in the midst of a storm, she hesitates briefly. Dan, on his last
word, and coincident with Tina's entrance, snatches the bag
from Tina's hand, dashes it to the floor, gives Tina a shove that
sends her spinning out of the room.]
KITTY: [The transition is complete. Her first real resentment. From
here she must move more quickly, her transition reaching a still
higher note.] You pick that up! [For answer, Dan gives the bag
208 CONFLICT

a violent kick, sending it to a corner of the room. Beside herself.]

Bracelets, eh? [She takes off a three-inch jeweled band; drops it
onto the floor, and kicks it viciously across the room.] That
shows you what you know about women! You think if you give
me a bracelet— Why do you give 'em to mel Because you've
put over one of your dirty deals and want me to lug these around
to show what a big guy you arel You don't do it to make me feel
good; it's for you! [She does not know in what direction her anger
will take her, but she hits into the dark.]
PACKARD: Oh, it is, is it I What about this place and all these clothes
and fur-coats and automobiles! Go any place you want to, money
to throw away! There ain't a wife in the world got it softer than
you have! I picked you up out of the gutter, and this is the
thanks I get!
KITTY: [Like a good hunting dog, gets the scent at last. Now she
knows where she's going] Thanks for what? Dressing me up like
a plush horse and leaving me to sit alone, day after day and night
after night! You never take me anywheresl Always playing poker
and eating dinner with your men friends—or say you are. [She
is moving toward a new goal—watch her.]
PACKARD: That's a nice crack. [Still unsuspecting, he is ready to be
conciliatory.]
KITTY: You're always either coming in or going out, blowing what
a big guy you've just been, or going to be. You never think about
me, or do any of the nice little things that women like—you
never sent me a flower in your life! When I want to wear flowers
I got to go out and buy 'em! [With a gesture to the door where
Tina has lately stood with the orchids.] What woman wants to
buy theirself flowers! You never sit and talk to me, or ask me
what I've been doing, or how I am, or anything!
PACKARD: Well, go and find yourself something to do! I ain't stop-
ping you!
KITTY: YOU bet you ain't! You think I sit home all day looking at
bracelets! Hah! Of all the dumb bunnies! What do you think
I'm doing while you're pulling your crooked deals! Just waiting
for Daddy to come home! [Now the conflict reaches its crisis.]
PACKARD: What're you driving at, you little—
KITTY: YOU think you're the only man I know—you great big noise.
TRANSITION 209

Well, you aren't! Seel There's somebody that just knowing him
has made me realize what a stufied shirt you are! [Transition
completed again—climax.]
PACKARD: [In an upward swing—counterattacks] Why you—you—
KITTY: [Helping him—she wants to see him furious. They are mov-
ing toward new transition and new conflict on a higher plane]
You don't like that, do you, Mr. Cabinet Memberl
PACKARD: [Still dazed. Transition from the impact to realization
not yet completed] Do you mean to tell me that you've been put-
ting it over on me with some other man I
KITTY: [She is in for it now. Means to go through with it] Yesl And
what're you going to do about it! You big gasbag!
PACKARD: [Drawing the full breath of the outraged male] Who is it?
KITTY: [A purr of malice] Don't you wish you knew!
PACKARD: [Seizes her wrist. Kitty screams] Tell me who it is!
KITTY: I won't.
PACKARD: Tell me or I'll break every bone in your body!
KITTY: I won't! You can kill me and I won't!
PACKARD: I'll find out, I'll— [Drops her wrist] Tina! Tina!
KITTY: She don't know. [There is a moment during which the two
stand silent, waiting for the appearance of Tina. There comes
slowly into the door, and a step or two into the room, a Tina,
who, in spite of the expression of wondering innocence on her
face, has clearly been eavesdropping. She comes forward so that
she stands between the two silent figures.]
PACKARD: Who's been coming to this house?
TINA: Huh? [In the following, transition runs smoothly to form.]
KITTY: YOU don't know, do you, Tina?
PACKARD: Shut your face, you slut! [Turns again to Tina.] You
know, and you're going to tell. What man's been coming to this
house?
TINA: [A frantic shake of the head] I ain't seen nobody.
PACKARD: [Grasps her shoulder. Gives her a little shake] Yes you
have. Come on, who's been here? Who was here last week? Who
was here when I went to Washington?
TINA: Nobody—nobody—only the doctor.
PACKARD: No, no, I don't mean that. What man's been coming here
behind my back?
21O CONFLICT

TINA: I ain't seen a soul.

KITTY: [Kills two birds with one stone—he is jealous, but he does
not suspect the doctor, the man Kitty loves] HahJ What did I
tell you!
PACKARD: [Looks at her as though trying to find a way of worming
the truth out of her. Decides it is hopeless. Gives her a push
toward the door] Get the hell out of here. [Kitty stands waiting
to see what turn events will take. Packard paces a step this way
and that. Wheels suddenly.] I'll divorce you. That's what I'll do.
I'll divorce you, and you won't get a cent That's the law for what
you've done.
KITTY: YOU can't prove anything. You've got to prove it first.
PACKARD: I'll prove it. I'll get detectives to prove it. They'll track
him down. I'd like to get hold of the guy just once. How I'd like
to get my fingers around his neck. And I will too. I'll get him.
I'll kill him and I'll throw you out like an alley cat.
KITTY: Yeah? You'll throw me out. Well, before you throw me out
you'd better think twice. Because me, I don't have to get detec-
tives to prove what I've got on you.
PACKARD: You've got nothing on me.
KITTY: NO? SO you want to go to Washington, do you? And be a
big shot, and tell the president where to get off. You want to go
in politics? [Her tone becomes savage.] Well, I know about poli-
tics. And I know all about the crooked deals you bragged about.
God knows I was bored stiff—the Thompson business, and gyp-
ping old man Clarke, and now this Jordan thing. Skinning him
out of his eyeteeth. When I tell about those it'll raise a pretty
stink. Politics! You couldn't get into politics. You couldn't get
in anywhere. You couldn't get into the men's room at the Astor.
PACKARD: You snake, you. You poisonous little rattlesnake. I'm
through with you. I've got to go to this Ferncliffe dinner, but
after tonight we're through. And I wouldn't go there with you
except that meeting Ferncliffe is more important to me than you
are. I'm clearing out tonight, get me? Tomorrow I send for my
clothes. And you can set here and get flowers from your soul-
mate. We're through. [Packard stalks off to his own room and
slams the door. The transition is complete.]
TRANSITION 211

This scene starts with irritation and ends with rage. In be-
tween the steps lead up from the first to the last.

An almost universal fault of mediocre writers is ignoring

transition, but believing that their portrayals are true to life.
It is true that transition can take place in a very short time,
and in a character's mind, without the character being aware
of it. But it is there, and the author must show it to be there.
Melodramas and stock characters have no transition which is
the lif eblood of real drama.
Eugene O'Neill invented many devices with which to con-
vey his characters' thought to the audience. Yet none of them
was as successful as the simple, transitional method employed
by Ibsen and others of the great.
In The Bear, Chekhov's fine one-acter, there is a fine visible
transition. Popova, the lady, has agreed to "shoot it out" with
Smirnov, since she has insulted him.
SMIRNOV: It's about time we got rid of the theory that only men
need pay for their insults. Devil take it, if you want equality of
rights you can have it. We're going to fight it outl
POPOVA: With pistols? Very welll
SMIRNOV: This very minute.
POPOVA: This very minutel My husband had some pistols. I'll bring
th°m here. [Is going, but turns back.] What pleasure it will give
me to put a bullet into your thick headl Devil take youl [Exit.]
SMIRNOV: I'll bring her down like a chicken! I'm not a little boy
or a sentimental puppy; I don't care about this "softer sex." [A
movement toward weakening has started.]
LUKA: [The servant] Gracious little fathers! [Kneels] Have pity on
a poor old man and go away from here. You've frightened her to
death, and now you want to shoot her!
SMIRNOV: [Not hearing him] If she fights, well, that's equality of
rights, emancipation, and all that! But what a woman! [The
visible transition starts.] [Parodying her.] "Devil take you! I'll
put a bullet into your thick head." Eh? How she reddened, how
212 CONFLICT

her cheeks shonel . . . She accepted my challenge! My word,

it's the first time in my life that I've seen—
LUKA: GO away, sir, and I'll always pray to God for youl
SMIRNOV: She is a womanl That's the sort I can understand! A real
woman! Not a sour-faced jelly-bag, but fire, gunpowder, a rocket!
I am even sorry to have to kill her!
LUKA: [Weeps] Dear—dear sir, do go away!
SMIRNOV: I absolutely like her! Absolutely! Even though her cheeks
are dimpled, I like her. I am almost ready to let the debt go—
and I'm not angry any longer—wonderful woman!

The transition is too obvious at the end. It lacks the subtlety

which makes the transition in A Doll's House an integral part
of the play.
Without transition there cannot be development or growth.
T. A. Jackson writes in his book, Dialectics:

Considered qualitatively, it is . . . self-evident that the universe

is never for any two successive moments the same.

To paraphrase this for our own uses, it is self-evident that a

play is never for any two successive moments the same.
A character who travels from one pole to the opposite one,
as from religion to atheism or vice versa, has to be on the
move constantly to traverse this immense space in the allotted
two hours in the theater.
Every tissue, every muscle and bone in our bodies, is re-
juvenated every seven years. Our attitude and outlook on life,
our hopes and dreams are also constantly changing. This trans-
formation is so imperceptible that usually we are not even
aware that it is taking place in our bodies and in our minds.
This is transition: we are never, for any two successive mo-
ments, the same. And transition is the element which keeps
the play moving without any breaks, jumps, or gaps. Transi-
tion connects seemingly unconnected elements, such as winter
and summer, love and hate.
TRANSITION 213

2
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. This
is the perfect rising conflict. The jumping conflict is erratic:
one, two—five, six—nine, ten.
In life there is no such thing as a jumping conflict. "Jump-
ing to a conclusion" indicates an acceleration rather than a
break in the mental processes.
Here is the opening scene from Stevedore, by Peters and
Sklar. It is a short scene, but there is a jump in it. Try to find it.
FLORRIE: Gee, Bill, what's happened to us? Why do we have to
fight all the time? We never used to be like this. [She puts her
hand on his arm.]
BILL: [Throwing her hand off] Aw lay off, lay offl
FLORRIE: YOU pigl [She begins to weep.]
BILL: You're all alike, you little married sluts; you never know
when to quit.
FLORRIE: [She slaps his face.] Don't you talk to me like that.
BILL: All right. All right. That suits me. Only we're through now
and don't you forget it. I don't want to see you any more and
I don't want you to come down to the office any more. Go back
to that sap husband of yours and try loving him for a change. He
sure needs it. [He turns to go.]
FLORRIE: NOW you wait a minute, Bill Larkin.
BILL: Oh, shut upl And don't you go calling me up with this line
of yours about something important to tell me, either.
FLORRIE: I've got something important to tell you right now. I
wrote those letters to Helen, if you want to know,. And that isn't
all, either. I'm going to fix you. Just you wait and see. I'll go to
Helen and tell her just what kind of a pig she's going to marry.
You can't treat me like that and get away with it. Maybe that
stuff worked with your other women, but you picked the wrong
number this time, dearie. You're not through with me; oh, no,
you're not. Not by a hell of a ways.
BILL: YOU God damned— [The man seizes her by the throat in
rage. She bangs his face and shrieks. Now he beats her up in a
214 CONFLICT

blind fury. She shrieks louder and falls to the ground. Doors
slam, voices are heard. Bill runs away.]
FREODIE: [Offstage] Florrie, was that you? Florriel Where are you?
Now go back to where Bill said, "Oh, shut upl" and read
Florrie's speech. She announces that she has written certain
letters to the girl Bill wishes to marry, and we expect him to
be enraged. But she continues with a fairly long speech, and
he does nothing. This is static. The only vital line in the
speech is the opening sentence, and it arouses no reaction.
What does arouse him is so trivial that his reaction is a jump-
ing conflict.
The authors subconsciously felt the need for transi-
tion, but, not understanding the principle, they reversed
the process. Thereby they created a static conflict, followed
by a jumping one—signs of character trouble. From his warn-
ing, "Oh, shut upl" to the end of Florrie's speech, Bill's men-
tal processes are blank, so far as the audience is concerned. If
she had begun: "You can't treat me like that and get away
with it," Bill would have had a chance to react with some
counterthreat. Then she would continue: "Maybe that stuff
worked with your other women, but you picked the wrong
number this time, dearie!" Bill's impatience and rising tem-
per would have caused her to hurry on to: "I'll go to Helen
and tell her just what kind of a pig she's going to marry." This
is Bill's chance to threaten to beat her if she approaches Helen,
and the attack which causes her to speak her big line: "I wrote
those letters to Helen, if you want to know." In a completely
comprehensible rage, he gives her a beating.
In this way we could have witnessed the transition from
irritation to rage. As the scene stands now, the strongest line
ushers in a long-winded tirade. Bill is forced to stand there,
glaring at her—static—then start to choke her suddenly—
jump—after a pale and inconsequential line.
Now read a scene from Black Pit, by Maltz, and try to dis-
cover another jumping conflict—lack of transition. This is a
TRANSITION 215

much more serious defect than the one just discussed, because
here the foundation is laid for the future conduct of the char-
acter.

PRESCOTT: [He wishes Joe to turn stool pigeon.] . . . An' all I

know is if you gonna be wantin' your gravy you better stay friends
with the cook. Yessir! Of course, maybe you don't care. But I'm
telling you my woman ain't going hungry an' my boy ain't gonna
work in the mines, neither. Well, think it over, boy. [He stands
up.] I reckon it's kinda hard on you, Iola. Well— [He shrugs
and goes to the door.] Let me know when your kid comes. If any-
thing should change your mind, boy, I don't think the job'll be
filled before tomorrow. [He goes out. Silence.]
IOLA: Joe— [Joe doesn't answer. She gets up and goes over to him,
putting her hand on his arm.] Joe—ah don't care. Don't feel
bad, ah don't want a doctor. Ah'm not afraid. [She starts to cry.]
Ah won't be afraid, Joe— [She is shaken by her weeping.]
JOE: [Trying to control himself.] No cry, Iola! No cryl I no want
you cryl—
IOLA: [Choking back her tears.] Ah won't, Joe—ah won't. [She sits
with clenched hands. Her whole body is trembling. Joe walks
the room—looks at her—walks again.]
JOE: [Suddenly turns around and yells] What you wan' me be stool
pigeon?
IOLA: NO—ah don't—ah don't.
JOE: YOU t'ink I no wan' job—no wan' eat—no wan1 have doctor?
You t'ink I wan' you have baby, maybe die?
IOLA: NO, Joe—no—
JOE: Christusl What I'm gone do! [Silence. He walks, then sits
down. He starts to beat his clenched fist on the table with in-
creasing force. Finally he brings his hand down with all his
strength, and then again there is silence.] Man got to be man.
Man got to live like man. Man got have eat, got have woman,
got have house— [He jumps up.] Man no can live in hole lak
animal . . .
MARY: [Opens the door from the other room. Sleepily.] What be
matt'r? I hear yell.
JOE: [In control of himself] No yell, Mary. Outside. We be talk.
2l6 CONFLICT

MARY: Go sleep now.

JOE: We go sleep.
MARY: NO worry. Everyt'ing's gone be okay. [She hesitates.] I pray
for you. [She goes out. Silence.]
JOE: [With a little laugh] She pray for us. [A pause.] Company boss
here, Iolal Man got help self li'l bit, hah? Iola, no can let Tony
live in coke oven—live in hill. [In a whisper.] No can let you
have li'l feller, maybe—you all time wear shawl, Iola. [He goes
over to her.] You wan' hide belly? You be shame—shame for li'l
feller? / no be shame. I lak li'l feller—you t'ink he be wake now?
[He puts his ear to her belly.] No, he sleep. He go sleep early. He
go sleep when whistle blow. [He gives a little chuckle, then he
puts both hands out and strokes her face.] You lak me, Iola?
IOLA: Joe, couldn't you fool him? Mistah Prescott?—Couldn't you
take the job and dien just not tell him anythin'? [A pause. Joe's
hands come away from her face.]
JOE: [Slowly, quietly, as though stating something they both know.]
Yah. Sure, sure, Iola. I can fool heem. Take'm job. Tal heem
li'l t'ing no matt'r anybody. Sure.
IOLA: [Passionately] Nobody'll know. We don't hafta tell 'em—and
it'll only be for a little while. We don't hafta tell Tony.
JOE: [In the same slow way] Surel Sure, I fool heem. Take'm job.
Get-doctor. Make li'l bit money. After while—say g'bye go away
—sure. [A pause. He presses his head to her breast. Then, fear-
fully, as though trying to persuade her.] Man got live lak man,
Iola. [He raises his head. With increasing pain and determina-
tion.] Man no can live in hole, lak animal!
Curtain

Now go back to the end of Joe's speech, where he says,

"You lak me, Iola?" Her answer is the suggestion that he fool
Mr. Prescott. She may have been thinking about this all along,
but the audience is not made aware of it. When Prescott de-
parts she tells Joe that she does not expect the sacrifice from
him—and then, two pages later, she reverses her decision. The
reversal is legitimate, but we must know how the change oc-
curred.
TRANSITION 2»7

Joe tops this apparent jump with a greater one—he agrees

with her immediately. The decision is so swift as to be incred-
ible. Doesn't Joe know what the step entails? Doesn't he know
that he'll certainly be an outcast and perhaps lose his life as
well? Or does he feel that he can outsmart both the company
and his friends? We don't know what he thinks.
If we could see what goes on in Joe's mind—see what he sees
when he thinks of the bosses, the watchmen, the blacklists, the
ostracism—his downfall would be that much more tragic to us.
• With this jumping conflict, with this lack of transition, the
fate of the play was sealed. Joe never was a tridimensional
character. The author never gave him a fighting chance—he
determined Joe's fate, instead of letting Joe figure it out for
himself.
Joe's decision would have come after much more ponder-
ing, much more struggle between Joe and Iola, much more
procrastination, and it would have resulted in a rising conflict.
Look at Nora. The transition from despair to the decision
to leave is short, but it is logical. Maltz attempts transition
once or twice, but his handling of it is clumsy. When Joe says:
"Man got help self li'l bit," we get the idea that he's bending
toward the stool-pigeon career. But a few lines later he says
that he wouldn't be ashamed if Iola had no shawl to cover her
belly—and both Iola and the audience understand that he is
not going to take the job—else why should she make the coun-
tersuggestion that he take it and fool the boss?
This jumping back and forth between negative and positive
retards Joe's growth, thus garbling the message of the play.
There is no doubt that Joe is a weak character, never sure of
what he wants. And, should the author say that this is just why
he became a stool pigeon, we would refer him to the chapter:
"Strength of Will in a Character."

QUESTION: You've taught me that it's of prime importance for

a play to move. But do we see every turn of the wheel when
218 CONFLICT

a car drives by? No, because that's not important to us as

long as the car is moving. We know that the wheels are
turning, because we feel the motion of the car.
ANSWER: A car may jump, stop, jump, stop, endlessly. It is in
motion, all right, but such motion would shake the life out
of you in a half-hour. A gearshift in a car is comparable to a
transition in a play, because it is the transition between
two speeds. Just as the bucking car shakes you, physically, a
series of jumping conflicts shakes you emotionally. Your
question was an interesting one: shall we observe every turn
of the wheel? Shall we record every movement of a transi-
tion? The answer is no. It is not necessary. If you suggest a
movement in transition, and this suggestion throws a light
on the working of the character's mind, we think it is suf-
ficient. It depends upon the dramatist's ability, how success-
fully he can compress his material in transition, giving—or
suggesting—the whole movement.

10. Crisis, Climax, Resolution

In birth pains, there is crisis, and the birth itself, which is the
climax. The outcome, whether it is death or life, will be the
resolution.
In Romeo and Juliet, Romeo goes to the hated Capulets'
home disguised with a mask, to catch a glimpse of Rosalind,
his love. There he discovers another young girl so beautiful,
so enchanting, that he falls madly in love with her (crisis).
With dismay he finds that Juliet is the heiress of the Capulets
(climax), the bitterest enemy of his family. Tybalt, nephew of
Lady Capulet, discovering Romeo, attempts to kill him (reso-
lution).
Meanwhile Juliet also learns Romeo's identity and tells her
sorrows to the moon and stars. Romeo, driven by his incom-
parable love for Juliet, returns and hears her (crisis). They
CRISIS, CLIMAX, RESOLUTION 219

decide to get married (climax). The next day, in the cell of

Friar Lawrence, a friend of Romeo, they do get married (reso-
lution).
In every act, crisis, climax, and resolution follow each other
as day follows night. Let us look into this matter more closely
in another play.
Krogstad's threat against Nora, in A Doll's House, is a crisis:
Let me tell you this—if I lose my position a second time, you shall
lose yours with me.
Krogstad means to expose her as a forger if she does not
persuade Helmer to allow him to keep his job.
This threat—whatever the outcome—will be a turning
point in the life of Nora; a crisis. If she can influence Hel-
mer to keep Krogstad in the bank, it will be the culmination
of all that went before; the climax. But it will also be a climax
for this scene if Helmer refuses to keep him.
I assure you it would be quite impossible for me to work with him;
I literally feel physically ill when I am in the company of such
people,

declares Helmer, and with this statement we have arrived at

the highest point of this scene: the climax. He is adamant.
Krogstad will expose her—and Helmer had said that a person
who forges signatures is not fit to be a mother. Besides the
scandal, she will lose Helmer, whom she loves, and her chil-
dren. The resolution is: terror.
In the next scene she tries again, but Helmer once more
is immovable. She accuses him of being narrow-minded. He is
hurt to the quick. Crisis. It seems Helmer is determined now.
He says:
Very well—I must put an end to this.
He calls the maid, and gives her a letter to mail immediately.
She goes.
220 CONFLICT

NORA: [Breathlessly] Torvald—what was that letter?

HELMER: Krogstad's dismissal.
NORA: Call her back, Torvaldl There is still time.Oh, Torvald,
call her back. Do it for my sake—for your own sake—for the
children's sakel Do you hear me, Torvald? Call her backl You
don't know what that letter can bring upon us.
HELMER: It's too late.

Climax. The resolution is Nora's resignation. This crisis,

and climax, are on a higher plane than the previous one. Be-
fore, Helmer only threatened, but now he has fulfilled his
threat. Krogstad is dismissed.
Here is the next scene, where crisis, climax, and resolution
appear again on.a still higher plane. Note also the perfect
transition between the last crisis and the coming one.
Krogstad comes stealthily through the kitchen. He has re-
ceived his dismissal. Helmer is in the other room. Nora is in
terror that he may find this man here. She bolts the door and
asks Krogstad to "speak low—my husband is at home."
KROGSTAD: NO matter about that.
NORA: What do you want of me?
KROGSTAD: An explanation of something.
NORA: Make haste then. What is it?
KROGSTAD: YOU know, I suppose, that I have got my dismissal.
NORA: I couldn't prevent it, Mr. Krogstad. I fought as hard as I
could on your side, but it was no good.
KROGSTAD: Does your husband love you so little, then? He knows
what I can expose you to, and yet he ventures—
NORA: HOW can you suppose that he has any knowledge of the
sort?
KROGSTAD: I didn't suppose so at all. It would not be the least like
our dear Torvald Helmer to show so much courage—
NORA: Mr. Krogstad, a little respect for my husband, please.
KROGSTAD: Certainly—all the respect he deserves. But since you
have kept the matter so carefully to yourself, I make bold to sup-
pose that you have a little clearer idea than you had yesterday
of what it actually is that you have done?
CRISIS, CLIMAX, RESOLUTION 221

NORA: More than you could ever teach me.

KROGSTAD: Yes, such a bad lawyer as I am.
NORA: What is it you want of me?
KROGSTAD: Only to see how you were, Mrs. Helmer. I have been
thinking about you all day long. A mere cashier, a quill-driver,
a—well, a man like me—even he has a little of what is called
feeling, you know.
NORA: Show it, then; think of my children.
KROGSTAD: Have you and your husband thought of mine? But never
mind about that. I only wanted to tell you that you need not
take this matter too seriously. In the first place there will be no
accusation made on my part.
NORA: N O , of course not; I was sure of that.
ROGSTAD: The whole thing can be arranged amicably; there is no
reason why anyone should know anything about it. It will re-
main a secret between us three.
NORA: My husband must never get to know anything about it.
KROGSTAD: HOW will you be able to prevent it? Am I to understand
that you can pay the balance that is owing?
NORA: N O , not just at present.
KROGSTAD: Or perhaps that you have some expedient for raising
the money soon?
NORA: N O expedient that 1 mean to make use of.
KROGSTAD: Well, in any case, it would have been of no use to you
now. If you stood there with ever so much money in your hand,
I would never part with your bond.
NORA: Tell me what purpose you mean to put it to.
ROGSTAD: I shall only preserve it—keep it in my possession. No
one who is not concerned in the matter shall have the slightest
hint of it. So that if the thought of it has driven you to any
desperate resolution—
NORA: It has.
KROGSTAD: If you had it in your mind to run away from your
home—
NORA: I had.
KROGSTAD: Or even something worse—
NORA: HOW could you know that?
KROGSTAD: Give up the idea.
222 CONFLICT

NORA: How did you know I had thought of that?

KROCSTAD: Most of us think of that at first. I did, too—but I hadn't
the courage.
NORA: [Faintly] No more had I.
KROGSTAD: [In a tone of relief] No, that's it, isn't it—you hadn't
the courage either?
NORA: NO, I haven't—I haven't.
KROCSTAD: Besides, it would have been a great piece of folly. Once
the first storm at home is over—I have a letter for your husband
in my pocket. [The crisis begins.]
NORA: Telling him everything?
KROCSTAD: In as lenient a manner as I possibly could.
NORA: [Quickly] He mustn't get the letter. Tear it up. I will find
some means of getting money.
KROCSTAD: Excuse me, Mrs. Helmer, but I think I told you just
' now—
NORA: I am not speaking of what I owe you. Tell me what sum
you are asking my husband for, and I will get the money.
KROGSTAD: I am not asking your husband for a penny.
NORA: What do you want, then?
KROCSTAD: I will tell you. I want to rehabilitate myself, Mrs. Hel-
mer; I want to get on; and in that your husband must help me.
For the last year and a half I have not had a hand in anything
dishonorable, and all that time I have been struggling in most
restricted circumstances. I was content to work my way up step
by step. Now I am turned out, and I am not going to be satis-
fied with merely being taken into favor again. I want to get on,
I tell you. I want to get into the Bank again, in a higher position.
Your husband will make a place for me—
NORA: That he will never dol
KROGSTAD: He will; I know him; he dare not protest. And as soon
as I am in there again with him, then you will seel Within a year
I shall be the manager's right hand. It will be Nils Krogstad and
not Torvald Helmer who manages the Bank. [Crisis. Now they
move toward climax.]
NORA: That's a thing you will never see!
KROGSTAD: DO you mean that you will—?
NORA: I have courage enough for it now.
CRISIS, CLIMAX, RESOLUTION 22$

KROGSTAD: Oh, you can't frighten me. A fine, spoilt lady like you—
NORA: You will see; you will see.
KROGSTAD: Under the ice, perhaps? Down into the cold, black
water? And then, in the spring, to float up to the surface, all
horrible and unrecognizable, with your hair fallen out—
NORA: YOU can't frighten me.
KROGSTAD: Nor you me. People don't do such things, Mrs. Helmer.
Besides, what use would it be? I should have him completely in
my power all the same.
NORA: Afterwards? When I am no longer—
KROGSTAD: Have you forgotten that it is I who have the keeping of
your reputation? [Nora stands speechlessly looking at him.]
Well, now, I have warned you. Do not do anything foolish.
When Helmer has had my letter, I shall expect a message from
him. And be sure you remember that it is your husband him-
self who has forced me into such ways as this again. I will never
forgive him for that. Good-by, Mrs. Helmer. [Exit through the
hall.]
NORA: [Goes to the hall door, opens it slightly, and listens.] He is
going. He is not putting the letter in the box. Oh, no, no! that's
impossible! [Opens the door by degrees.] What is that? He is
standing outside. He is not going downstairs. Is he hesitating?
Can he—? [A letter drops into the box, then Krogstad's footsteps
are heard, till they die away as he goes downstairs. Nora utters
a stifled cry, and runs across the room to the table by the sofa. A
short pause.]
[Climax.]
NORA: In the letterbox. [Steals across to the hall door.] There it
lies—Torvald, Torvald, there is no hope for us now! [Resolu-
tion. Resignation—but since there is no absolute resignation
while there is life, she will try again.]
T h e precise moment of climax came when Krogstad
apped the letter into the mailbox.
Death is a climax. Before death is crisis, when there is hope
—however slim it is. Between these two poles, transition. A
turn for the worse in the patient's condition or an improve-
ment will fill that space.
224 CONFLICT

If you desire to depict how a man burns himself to death

in bed through carelessness, first show him smoking, falling
asleep, and the cigarette igniting a curtain. At this moment
you've arrived at crisis. Why? Because the careless man might
awaken and put out the fire, or someone might smell the burn-
ing material; and if neither of these happens, he'll burn to
death. It is a matter of moments in this case, but crisis can be
longer.
Crisis: a state of things in which a decisive change one way
or the other is impending.
Now let us examine what causes a crisis and climax. We'll
take A Doll's House, which the reader by now knows quite
well. The climax was inherent in the premise: "Inequality
in marriage breeds unhappiness." In the very beginning- of
the play, the author knew the end, so he could consciously
select his characters to fulfill this premise. We have dealt with
"plot" in the chapter, "Characters Plotting Their Own Play."
We have shown how Nora was forced by necessity to forge her
father's name and borrow from Krogstad to save Helmer's
life. If Krogstad were simply a money-lender, the drama would
have missed fire. But as it was, Krogstad was a thwarted indi-
vidual; he had forged a signature, as Nora did, to save his
family. The thing had been hushed up somehow, but he was
stigmatized. He became a shady character, but he moved
heaven and earth to clear his name for the sake of his family.
He worked hard to rehabilitate himself in the eyes of the
world. To be employed in a bank meant to Krogstad the road
back to respectability.
This is how affairs stood with Krogstad when Nora ap-
proached him for money. He was lending money to others,
so there was no reason why he should not lend to Nora. Be-
sides, Helmer had been his schoolmate, although no love was
lost between the two. Helmer snubbed Krogstad and was al-
most ashamed to know him, largely because of the rumor
about his alleged forgery. It was a sweet revenge to Krogstad
CRISIS, CLIMAX, RESOLUTION 225

to see the wife of this scrupulously respectable man in the

same predicament as he had been in. When Helmer got the
managership in the bank and fired Krogstad, chiefly through
principle, but also because Nora dared to think that she or
anyone else could influence his sound judgment, Krogstad
was aroused to fighting fury. Now he wanted more than
money. Now he wanted to humiliate or destroy Helmer and
get on in the world himself. He has the weapon in his hand
and he will use it.
As you notice, the unity of opposites is perfect in this case.
Nora is by now aware of the implications of her deed, but too
horror-stricken to tell Helmer, because she knows now what
Helmer thinks of such a serious breach of ethics. On the other
hand, there is Krogstad who, besides being humiliated, sees
the good name of his children jeopardized again and is ready
to fight it out even if someone has to perish as a result.
This conflict cannot be bridged by compromise. Nora of-
fers money, as much as Krogstad is willing to name, but Krog-
stad is by now thoroughly aroused, and no money will suffice.
He will have to be vindicated. Helmer wanted to destroy him,
so he will destroy Helmer.
This unbreakable bond between the parties will ensure ris-
ing conflict, crisis, and climax. The crisis was inherent from
the very beginning of the play; the choosing of these particular
characters predicated it. But—the climax can still be ruined
if any character weakens for some reason or other. If Helmer's
love would have been greater than his responsibility, he would
have listened to Nora's pleading and let Krogstad keep his
job in the bank. But Helmer is Helmer, and he runs true to
form.
As we see, crisis and climax follow each other, the last one
always on a higher plane than the one before.
A single scene contains the exposition of premise for that
particular scene, exposition of character, conflict, transition,
crisis, climax, and conclusion. This procedure should be re-
226 CONFLICT

peated as many times as there are scenes in your play, in an

ascending scale. Let us examine the first scene of Ghosts, to
see whether this is so.
After the curtain rises, we find Engstrand standing near the
garden door, with Regina blocking his way.
REGINA: [Below her breath] What is it you want? Stay where you
are. The rain is dripping off you.
ENGSTRAND: God's good rain, my girl.
REGINA: The devil's own rain, that's what it is.

The first three lines establish the antagonism between these

two. Every line thereafter lets us know the relationship
between them, as well as their physical, sociological, and psy-
chological make-up. We learn that Regina is healthy, good-
looking, and that Engstrand is crippled, with a flair for exag-
geration and a taste for liquor. We learn that he has had many
schemes for bettering his position—all of which had failed.
We learn that his current premise is to open a lodging for
sailors, with Regina to serve as a lure, making the dubious
patrons pay for her favors. We discover that Engstrand almost
killed his wife with his temper. We learn further that Regina's
education has been improved in the service of the Alvings;
that she and Oswald have some attachment; that she is sup-
posed to be teaching at the orphanage for which Engstrand
works.
In these first five pages one can see the perfect co-ordination
of the elements we listed earlier. Engstrand's premise is to take
Regina home with him, regardless of consequences. Regina's
premise is to stay. His motivation is to use her in his business,
hers is to marry Oswald. The characters are made known to
us {exposition) through conflict. Every line spoken throws
light on their traits and relationships. The very first line starts
the conflict which culminates when Regina wins.
Transition is perfect in the small conflict between Regina's
desire to stay and Engstrand's determination that she shall
CRISIS, CLIMAX, RESOLUTION 227

leave. Watch closely the lines from the opening until he di-
vulges his desire to take her home. From there, trace the move-
ment until Regina becomes indignant, remembering the
names he used to call her; from there until he tells her his
plan for a "high-class eating place"; and from there, to the
point where he advises her to take money from the sailors as
her mother did. Crisis set in right after his advice, and the
climax follows rapidly.

REGINA: [Advancing toward him] Get out!

ENGSTRAND: [Stepping back] Here! Herel— You're not going to hit
me, I suppose?
REGINA: Yesl If you talk like that of Mother, I will hit you. Get out,
I tell youl [Rushes him up to the garden daor.]

The climax has come about naturally, and the resolution

is apparent before Engstrand leaves. He reminds her that she
is his daughter, according to the Register, implying that he
can force her to go home with him. Yes, here again are all the
elements we were discussing before.
The next scene, between Manders and Regina, immediately
follows the first scene and also contains all that is necessary.
The climax comes when she offers herself to him, and poor
timid Manders, in a panic, says: "Perhaps you will be so kind
as to let Mrs. Alving know I am here?"
You will discover sharply denned climaxes throughout
Ghosts.
Nature works dialectically; she never jumps. In nature all
the dramatis personae are well orchestrated. The unity of
opposites is ironbound, and the crisis and climax come in
waves.
The human body is swarming with bacteria, which are kept
by the white corpuscles from doing harm. The healthy body
is the scene of many crises and climaxes. But if the resistance
of the body is lowered, and the number of white corpuscles
diminished, the bacteria multiply alarmingly and make them-
228 CONFLICT

selves felt. There is constantly rising conflict between the

germs and the defensive corpuscles. The crisis comes when the
defensive forces are in full retreat, and it seems that the body
is doomed. Just as in a play, there is the great question of
whether or not the protagonist (the body) will be destroyed.
The white corpuscles, although weakened, go into an offensive
drive, and the body girds itself for a final decisive battle. The
deadliest of all bacteria fighters steps into the fight—fever.
The bacteria created the fever, and it now steps in on the side
of the body. This last crisis has led to the climax, in which the
body is willing to die fighting. If the body does die, we have
the conclusion—burial. If the body recovers, we have the con-
clusion just the same—recovery.
A man steals: conflict. He is pursued: rising conflict. He is
caught: crisis. He is condemned by the court: climax. Trans-
ferring him to prison is the conclusion.
It is interesting to note that "a man steals" is a climax in
itself, as is "courtship" or "conception." Even a minor climax
can lead up to the major climax of a play or a life.
There is no beginning and no end. Everything in nature
goes on and on. And so, in a play, the opening is not the be-
ginning of a conflict, but the culmination of one. A decision
was made, and the character experienced an inner climax. He
acts upon his decision, starting a conflict which rises, changing
as it goes, becoming a crisis and a climax.

We are quite certain that the universe is homogeneous in

its composition. The stars, the sun, even other suns millions
of miles away, are composed of the same elements as our earth.
All the ninety-two elements found in our insignificant globe
can be found in the light rays which travel three thousand
light-years to reach us. A man contains these same elements.
So does a protozoan—and everything else in nature.
The difference between star and star is the same as that be-
tween man and man: age, abundance of light, heat, and so on,
CRISIS, CLIMAX, RESOLUTION 229

depending upon the proportion of these various elements in

them. The knowledge of one star brings us closer to the knowl-
edge of all stars. Take a drop from the ocean and you will find
that it contains the same elements that constitute all oceans.
The same principle holds true for human beings—and for
the drama. The shortest scene contains all the elements of a
three-act play. It has its own premise which is enposed through
conflict between the characters. The conflict grows through
transition to crisis and climax. Crisis and climax are as peri-
odical in a play as exposition is constant.
Let us ask the question once more: what is crisis? And we
answer, "Turning point; also a state of things in which a de-
cisive change one way or the other is impending."
In A Doll's House the main crisis occurs when Helmer finds
the letter from Krogstad and learns the truth. What will he
do? Help Nora in her predicament? Will he understand the
motivation of her act? Or, true to his character, will he con-
demn her? We don't know. Although we know Helmer's atti-
tude toward such things, we also know that he loves Nora a
great deal. This uncertainty will then be the crisis.
The climax, the culminating point, comes when Helmer,
instead of understanding, bursts into an uncontrollable fury.
The conclusion will be Nora's decision to leave Helmer.
The resolutions in Hamlet, Macbeth, and Othello are short.
Almost immediately after the climax, the promise of punish-
ment and a just future brings down the curtain. In A Doll's
House, the resolution takes the better half of the last act.
Which is better? There can be no set rule on this point, if the
playwright can maintain the conflict, as Ibsen did in A Doll's
House.
 IV

GENERAL

1. Obligatory Scene

A SCIENTIST died the other day—a man who added to the

world's knowledge. Let me tell you about his life, and then
I want you to tell me which phase of his history was most
important.
He was conceived. He was born healthy, but when he was
four years old, he became ill of typhoid fever. As a result, his
heart was weakened. When the boy was seven, his father died,
and his mother was forced to work in a factory. The neigh-
bors cared for him, but he suffered from malnutrition.
Wandering alone through the streets one day he ran in
front of a car. Both his legs were broken, and he was confined
to bed, first at the hospital, then at home. He whiled away
the hours by reading more than the average boy of his age. At
ten he read philosophy; at fourteen he decided to be a chemist.
His mother worked hard, but could not afford to send him to
school.
He was well now, and he ran errands so that he might at-
tend night school. At seventeen he won twenty-five dollars for
an essay on biochemistry. When he was eighteen he met a man
who recognized his potentialities and sent him to college.
He progressed rapidly, but his benefactor was angry when
the young man fell in love and married. With financial sup-
port withdrawn, the boy managed to obtain work as a laborer
in a chemical factory. At twenty he was a father, with a salary
230
OBLIGATORY SCENE 231

far too small to support his family. He undertook additional

work and broke down. His wife left him with the child and
went back to her family. He was bitter, contemplated suicide,
but by twenty-five we find him back at night school, complet-
ing his studies. His wife had divorced him, and his weak heart
was troubling him.
At thirty he remarried. The woman, five years his senior,
was a teacher who understood his ambitions. He built a small
laboratory at home and went to work on his theories. Success
came almost immediately. A big company encouraged him in
his inventions, and when he died at sixty, he was acknowl-
edged the most prolific inventor of his time.
Now, which was the most important phase of his life?
YOUNG LADY: Meeting the schoolteacher, of course. This gave
him the chance to experiment—and succeed.
i: What about the accident which broke his legs? He might
have been killed.
YOUNG LADY: True. If he had died, there wouldn't have been
any success story. This is an important phase too.
i: How about his wife's divorcing him?
YOUNG LADY: I see. If she hadn't divorced him, he couldn't
have remarried.
i: He had a breakdown, remember. If he hadn't, she might
have never thought of divorce. If his heart hadn't been
weakened by typhoid, he might have been able to hold sev-
eral jobs at once, and his wife would not have left him. He
might have had more children and remained a laborer. Now
which phase was most important?
YOUNG LADY: His birth,
i: What about the conception of the child?
YOUNG LADY: I see. Of course, that was the most important
phase,
i: Just a second: suppose his mother had died carrying him in
her womb?
YOUNG LADY: What are you driving at?
232 GENERAL

i: I am trying to find the most important phase of this man's

life.
YOUNG LADY: It seems to me that there is no such thing as a
most important phase, since each phase grows out of the one
before it. Every phase is equally important.
i: Isn't it true, then, that each phase is the result of many
events at a specific time?
YOUNG LADY: Yes.
i: Each phase, then, is dependent on the one before it?
YOUNG LADY: It seems so.
i: Then we can safely say that there is no phase which is more
important than the others?
YOUNG LADY: Yes—but why are you taking this roundabout
way to our discussion of the obligatory scene?
i: Because all textbook writers seem to agree that the obliga-
tory scene is the scene which a play must have. It is ex-
pected. It is the scene for which everyone is waiting, the
scene which has been promised throughout and which can-
not be eliminated. In other words, the play builds to an
inevitable scene which will tower over all the others. There
is such a scene in A Doll's House when Helmer takes the
letter out of the mailbox.
YOUNG LADY: Don't you approve of it?
i: I don't approve of the concept, because every scene in a
play is obligatory. Do you understand why?
YOUNG LADY: Why?
i: Because if Helmer hadn't been ill, Nora wouldn't have
forged the signature, Krogstad would have had no excuse
to come to the house demanding money, there would have
been no complications, Krogstad never would have writ-
ten the letter, Helmer would never have opened it, and—
YOUNG LADY: What you say is true, but I agree with Lawson
when he says: "No play can fail to provide a point of con-
centration toward which the maximum expectation is
aroused."
OBLIGATORY SCENE 233

i: True, but misleading. If a play has a premise, only the prov-

ing of the premise should create a "point of concentration
toward which the maximum expectation is aroused." What
are we interested in, anyway—an obligatory scene or the
proving of the premise? Since the play grew from the prem-
ise, naturally the proving of the premise will be the "obliga-
tory scene." Many obligatory scenes misfired because there
was an ambiguous premise or no premise at all, and the,
audience had nothing to wait for.

"Ruthless ambition destroys itself" is the premise of Mac-

beth. The proving of this premise will provide a "point of
concentration toward which the maximum expectation is
aroused." Every action brings forth a reaction. Ruthlessness
carries in itself its own destruction—to prove this is obliga-
tory. If for any reason this natural sequence is delayed or
omitted, the play will suffer.
There is no moment in a play which does not grow from
the one before it. Any scene should be supreme in its mo-
ment. Only an integrated scene has the vitality to make us
eager for the next. The difference between scenes is that the
vehemence of each should mount over that of the last. If we
consider only the obligatory scene, we might be likely to con-
centrate on just one tense scene in a play, forgetting that the
scenes before it need equal attention. Each scene contains the
same elements as the whole.
The play as a whole will rise continuously, reaching a pitch
which will be the culmination of the entire drama. This scene
will be more tense than any other, but not to the detriment
of any previous scene, or the play will suffer.
The success of the scientist we were talking about can be
measured only by the steps leading up to it. Any phase of his
life might have been the last one, culminating in failure or
death. Lawson writes: "The obligatory scene is the immedi-
ate goal toward which the play is driving." Not true. The im-
234 GENERAL

mediate goal is the proving of the premise, and nothing else.

Statements like Lawson's will obscure the issue.
The scientist wished to succeed, just as a play must prove
its premise, but there are issues at hand which must be dealt
with first, and as well as possible. The obligatory scene must
not be treated as an independent issue. Character and its de-
terminants must be taken into account. "The climax has its
roots in the social conception. The obligatory scene is rooted
in activity, it is the physical outgrowth of the conflict," says
Lawson.
All activity, physical or otherwise, must have its roots in
social conception. A flower is not buried in the soil, but it
would not exist if it had not grown on a stem with roots in
the soil. Not one but many obligatory scenes created the final
clash, the main crisis—the proving of the premise—which
Lawson and others mistakenly call the obligatory scene.

2. Exposition
There is a mistaken idea that exposition is another name
for the beginning of a play. Textbook writers tell us that we
must establish mood, atmosphere, background, before our ac-
tion begins. They tell us how characters should make their
entrances, what they should say, how they should behave to
impress and hold the audience. And while all this seems very
helpful at first, it leads to confusion.
What does Webster's say?
Exposition: a setting forth of the meaning or purpose of a writing;
designed to carry information.
And March's Thesaurus?
Exposition: the act of exposing.
Now then, what do we want to expose? The premise? The
atmosphere? The character's background? The plot? The
EXPOSITION 235

scenery? The mood? The answer is, we must expose all these
at once.
If we choose only "atmosphere," the question arises almost
immediately: who lives in this atmosphere? If we answer: a
lawyer from New York, we are a step nearer to establishing
the atmosphere.
If we pursue the question further, and ask what kind of
man this lawyer is, we shall learn that he is a man of in-
tegrity, uncompromising, and a failure. We shall learn that
his father was a tailor who lived in poverty so that his son
might become a professional man. Without once mentioning
"atmosphere" in the questions we ask ourselves, and the an-
swers we give, we shall be on the way to establishing it. If
we become still more inquisitive about this lawyer, we shall
find out everything about him: his friends, ambitions, station
in life, immediate premise, and mood at the time.
The more we know about the man, the more we shall know
about the mood, locale, atmosphere, background, and plot.
It would seem, then, that what we want to expose is the
character of whom we are writing. We want the audience to
know his goal, since through knowing what he wants they
,will know a lot about what he is. We need not expose the
mood, or any of the other stock subjects. They are an integral
part of the whole play; they are established when the charac-
ter tries to prove his premise.
"Exposition" itself is part of the whole play, and not sim-
ply a fixture to be used at the beginning and then discarded.
Yet textbooks on writing deal with exposition as if it were a
separate element in dramatic construction.
Moreover, "exposition" should proceed constantly, with-
out interruption, to the very end of the play.
In the beginning of A Doll's House Nora exposes herself
through conflict as a naive, spoiled child who doesn't know
much about the outside world. Ibsen achieves this without
having a servant tell the new butler who their masters are
236 GENERAL

while instructing him how to behave. There are no telephone

conversations informing the audience that Mr. X has such
a fiery temper that heaven knows what he will do if he hears
what is happening.
Reading aloud a letter to expose the background of a char-
acter is also a poor device. All these makeshift tricks are not
only bad but unnecessary.
When Krogstad enters to demand money from Nora, the
ensuing threat, her reaction to this threat, reveal unmistak-
ably who Krogstad and Nora are. They expose themselves
through conflict—and will expose themselves throughout the
play.
Says George Pierce Baker:

First we arouse emotion in an audience by mere physical action;

by physical action which also develops the story, or illustrates
character, or does both.
In a good play physical action must do both of those things
and many, many more.
Percival Wilde, in his Craftsmanship, writes of "Exposi-
tion":
Closely akin to the establishment of mood is the creation of at-
mosphere.

Make this advice specific and you have something like this:
"In your play about starving share-croppers, be sure not to
have them wear full-dress. It is better to put them in rags and
show them in their tumbledown shacks to establish atmos-
phere. Insist that the costume designer avoid the use of dia-
monds, lest it give the impression of wealth and thus confuse
the audience."
Mr. Wilde continues with this crowning piece of advice:

Action may always be interrupted by exposition when the latter

is of the same or of a greater degree of interest.
EXPOSITION 237

But if you read any good play, you will notice that the
exposition is uninterrupted, continuous to the drop of the
last curtain. Moreover, by action he means conflict.
Whatever a character does, or does not do, whatever he says
or does not say, reveals him. If he decides to conceal his iden-
tity, if he lies or tells the truth, if he steals or does not steal,
he is forever revealing himself. The moment you stop exposi-
tion in any part of a play, the character stops growing, and,
with it, the play.
"Exposition," as the word is generally used, is misleading.
If our great writers had taken the advice of the "authorities,"
and confined exposition to the opening of the play, or to odd
spots between action, the greatest characters would have died
stillborn. Helmer's big exposition scene comes at the end of
the play—and could not have come anywhere else. Mrs. Al-
.ving kills her son at the end of Ghosts because we have seen
her growth through uninterrupted exposition. Nor does it
end there. Mrs. Alving could go on for the rest of her life, ex-
posing herself constantly, as everyone does.
What most teachers call exposition, we prefer to call "point
of attack."

QUESTION: I, for my part, accept your suggestion. But I see no

harm in using "atmosphere, mood, and setting," if those
terms clarify things for the beginner.
ANSWER: But they clarify nothing. They confuse. If you worry
about mood, you will neglect character study. William
Archer says, in his Playmaking:
. . . The art of so unfolding the drama of the past as to make the
gradual revelation no mere preface or prologue to the drama of the
present, but an integral part of its action..
If you follow this advice, you cannot stop here, there, any-
where, because your character is always involved in vital ac-
tion, and action, any kind of action (conflict), is exposition of
238 GENERAL

a character. If for any reason a character is not in conflict, the

exposition—as everything else in the play—stops right then
and there. In other words, conflict is really "exposition."

3. Dialogue
Students in my playwriting class submitted papers on "Dia-
logue." Miss Jeanne Michael wrote one which was so clear cut,
terse, and to the point that we feel we must quote from it.
Here it is:

In a play, dialogue is the chief means by which the prem-

ise is proved, the characters revealed, and the conflict carried.
It is vital that the dialogue be good, since it is the part of the
play which is most apparent to the audience.
But the playwright, acknowledging that a play is not good
with poor dialogue, must also acknowledge that really fine
dialogue is impossible unless it follows clearly and validly
from the character that uses it; unless it serves to show, nat-
urally and without strain, what has happened to the charac-
ters that is important to the action of the play.
Only a rising conflict will produce healthy dialogue. We
have all experienced the long, dull period when characters
sit about on a stage, talking endlessly, trying to fill the space
between one conflict and the next. If the author had pro-
vided the necessary transition, there would have been no need
for this bridge of chitchat. And no matter how clever con-
nective dialogue is, it is always very shaky because it has no
solid foundation.
On the other hand, we have the shallow dialogue which
results from static conflict. Neither of the opponents is going
to win this motionless battle, and their dialogue has no place
to go. One witty thrust immediately capped by another throws
neither of the combatants over, and the characters—although
DIALOGUE 239

it is a rare "witty" play that has living characters—freeze into

standard types that never grow. The characters and dialogue
in high comedy are often of this nature, which is why so few
society dramas are lasting plays.
Dialogue must reveal character. Every speech should be
the product of the speaker's three dimensions, telling us what
he is, hinting at what he will be. Shakespeare's characters grow
throughout, but they do not startle us, since their first speeches
suggest the stuff of which the last will be made. So, when Shy-
lock shows himself avaricious in his first appearance, we are
justified in suspecting that his behavior at the end will be the
result of his avariciousness in conflict with the forces around it.
We have no notebooks left by Shakespeare or Sophocles,
describing their protagonists. We have no diary written by
the Prince of Denmark or the King of Thebes. But we have
pages of dynamic dialogue telling most clearly how Hamlet
thought, what Oedipus' problem was.
Dialogue must reveal background. The first lines spoken by
Sophocles' Antigone are:
Sister, mine own dear sisterl O Ismenel
Of all the ills bequeathed by Oedipus
What is there Zeus yet faileth to fulfill
On us twain while we live?
conveying immediately the relationship between the char-
acters, their ancestry, their religious beliefs, and their mood
at the moment.
Clifford Odets handles this function of dialogue expertly
in the opening scene of Awake and Sing, when Ralphie says:
"All my life I wanted a pair of black and white shoes and I
can't get them. It's crazy." There you have economic back-
ground, as well as something of his personality. Dialogue
must give this, and it must begin to give it from the moment
the curtain goes up.
Dialogue must foreshadow coming events. In the murder
240 GENERAL

play there must be motivation and often preparatory infor-

mation as to the actual crime. For instance:
The sweet young thing kills the villain with a nail file.
Simple enough? Not unless you show logically that the girl
in some way knew of the existence of the file and knew that
it was sharp—else it might not occur to her to use it as a
weapon. And her original discovery of the file and its po-
tentialities must be dialectically valid, not casual. It must be
within her character to handle the weapon—and to comment
if she sticks herself with it. The audience likes to know what
is going on, and dialogue is one of the best ways of giving in-
formation.
Dialogue, then, grows from the character and the conflict,
and, in its turn, reveals the character and carries the action.
These are its basic functions, but they merely open the sub-
ject. There are many things the playwright must know to keep
his dialogue from falling flat.
Save words. Art is selective, not photographic, and your
point will carry further if unhampered by unnecessary ver-
biage. A "talky" play is the sign of internal trouble—trouble
coming from poor preliminary work. A play is talky because
the characters have ceased to grow and the conflict has stopped
moving. Hence the dialogue can only mill around and around,
boring the audience and forcing the director to devise business
for the actors, in the vain hope of diverting the unfortunate
playgoers.
Sacrifice "brilliance" for character, if need be, rather than
character for brilliance. Dialogue must come from the char-
acter, and no bon mot is worth the death of a character you
have created. It is possible to have lively, clever, moving dia-
logue without the loss of a single growing character.
Let the man speak in the language of his own world. Let
the mechanic speak in terms of machines, and the race-track
tout of bets and horses. Don't carry occupational imagery to
ridiculous lengths, but don't try to do without it, or any dia-
DIALOGUE 241

logue you achieve will be shallow and worthless. Mixing

imagery is a device which may be successfully employed in
burlesque. It is rib-tickling for prim Aunt Miranda to use
the underworld idiom in low comedy, but it would be pain-
ful in serious drama.
Don't be pedantic. Never use your play as a soapbox. Have
a message, by all means, but have it naturally and subtly.
Don't let your protagonist break out of character and make
a speech. The audience will quiver in embarrassed empathy
and take refuge in laughter.
The plea for reform of social injustice and class tyranny
has been voiced from Elizabeth's day to ours—and well
voiced. The cry must be in keeping with the character who
makes it and the provocation of the moment. In Bury the
Dead, the command to rise against war comes from a poverty-
created shrew, Martha Webster. It is not incongruous, but
fitting and heartbreaking.
And in Paul Green's Hymn to the Rising Sun we see how
competent exposition removes completely the need for ser-
mons. Mr. Green's simple, tense dialogue is the vehicle for
cutting satire of character and situation.
The action occurs in the hour before sunrise on the fourth
day of July, in a chain-gang camp. One of the convicts, a new-
comer, cannot work or sleep in his horror over the fate of the
Runt, who has been imprisoned in the sweatbox for eleven
days on bread and water rations, for masturbation. The cli-
max of action and irony comes when the new prisoner, upon
the captain's orders, turns his voice from the shrieks of the
beating just administered to "harden him up" to the strains
of America. The Runt is taken from the box, dead, and the
report is made: "Dead of natural causes." The gang shuffles
off to work while the impassive, elderly cook croaks America.
That is all. There is no word of condemnation for the law
that advocates such inhumanity. Rather, there is the captain's
oration, given in his blunt, straightforward manner, explain-
242 GENERAL

ing the rigors of the chain gang. Yet the play is a most fierce
indictment of this portion of the United States' penal code.
You need not make a speech to make a protest.
Make clever language truly part of the play. Remember
that your drama is not a vaudeville skit. "Gags" for their own
sake ruin continuity. Only complete compatibility with the
speaker can justify them, and they must fulfill some function
besides "getting a laugh." The Shakespeare of The Comedy
of Errors has the Dromios speak mainly in very bad puns, add-
ing nothing to the play. But in Othello he has learned to use
wordplay as an integral part of the whole. "Put out the light,
and then put out the light," Othello says before the murder,
thus suggesting both the events and his reaction to them.
A play of the 30's called Kids Learn Fast is dotted with ap-
plied humor. Mr. Shifrin has certain things to say which he
says in his own words, put into the mouths of babes. "The
sheriff always comes the day after the lynching"; "Mississippi,
Tennessee, Georgia, Florida, it makes no difference, it's al-
ways the nigger what's chased and everything." These are not
the natural language of the children he has sketched.
We have discussed so far the dialectics of dialogue in that
it grows from character and conflict which must be dialecti-
cal to exist. But dialogue must also be dialectical in itself, in
the small degree to which it can be divorced from its mates.
It must work within itself on the principle of slowly rising
conflict. When you name several things you save the most
impressive for last. "The Mayor," you say, "was there, and the
Governor—and the President!" Even the voice recognizes
growth: one, two, THREE, we say; not ONE, two, three.
There is that classic reversal which warns against murder
since it may lead to drinking, which in turn may lead to
smoking, which may lead to nonobservance of the Sabbath,
etc. This is good humor, but bad drama.
One of the finest examples of dialectical growth in dialogue
 DIALOGUE 243

can be found in an otherwise poor play, Idiot's Delight (Act

II, Scene II).
IRENE: [Talking to the munitions magnate] ... I have to run
away from the terror of my own thoughts. So I amuse myself by
studying the faces of the people I see. Just ordinary, casual, dull
people. [She is speaking in a tone that is sweetly sadistic] That
young English couple, for instance. I was watching them during
dinner, sitting there, close-together, holding hands, and rubbing
their knees together under the table. And I saw him in his nice,
smart, British uniform, shooting a little pistol at a huge tank.
And the tank rolls over him. And his fine, strong body, that was
so full of the capacity for ecstasy, is a mass of mashed flesh and
bones—a smear of purple blood—like a stepped-on snail. But
before the moment of death he consoles himself by thinking,
"Thank God she is safe! She is bearing the child I gave her, and
he will live to see a better world." . . . But I know where she
is. She is lying in a cellar that has been wrecked by an air raid,
and her firm young breasts are all mixed up with the bowels of
a dismembered policeman, and the embryo from her womb is
splattered against the face of a dead bishop. That is the kind of
thought with which I amuse myself, Achille. And it makes me
so proud to think that I am so close to you—who make all this
possible.
Mr. Sherwood builds from "A tone that is sweetly sadistic"
to a tragedy. He tops that by a hope quickly made more tragic
by its irony. That irony is a description more terrible than
the one before. And then the final peak of self-loathing, con-
scious degradation, conscious participation in the horror. No
other arrangement could have been as effective. Anticlimax
would have been inevitable and disastrous.
Just as conflict must come from character, and the sense of
the speech from both, so must the sound of the speech come
from all the others. The sentences must build up as the play
builds up, conveying the rhythm and meaning of each scene
by sound as well as sense. Here again, Shakespeare is our best

*
244 GENERAL

example. The sentences in his philosophical passages are

weighty and measured; in his love scenes lines are lyrical and
flow easily. Then, with the mounting of action, sentences be-
come shorter and simpler, so that not only the sentence con-
tent, but the word and syllable content, vary with the develop-
ment of the play.
The dialectical method does not rob the playwright of his
creative privilege. Once your characters have been set in mo-
tion, their path and their speech are determined, to a great
extent; but the choice of character is completely your own.
Consider, therefore, the idiom your people will employ, and
their voices, and methods of delivery. Think of their personal-
ities, and backgrounds, and the influence of these on their
speech. Orchestrate your characters, and their dialogue will
take care of itself. When you laugh at The Bear, remember
that Chekhov gained his bombast and ridiculous dignity from
a bombastic character played against a ridiculously dignified
one. And in Riders to the Sea, John Millington Synge sways
us to the tragic yet lovely rhythm of people who employ
harmonious rhythms which are not identical. Maurya, Nora,
Cathleen, and Bartley all use the accent of the Aran Islanders.
But Bartley is swaggering, Cathleen patient, Nora quick with
youth, and Maurya slow with age. The combination is one of
the most beautiful in English.
One thing more. Do not overemphasize dialogue. Remem-
ber that it is the medium of the play, but not greater than
the whole. It must fit into the play without jarring. In the
production of Iron Men, Norman Bel Geddes was criticized
for his excellent set, showing the actual building of a sky-
scraper on the stage. It was too good a set for the play, and
distracted any attention that might have been directed to the
characters. Dialogue often does this, breaking away from the
character and diverting attention to itself. Paradise Lost, for
instance, disappointed many of Odets' admirers by its wordi-
EXPERIMENTATION 245

ness. There are gratuitous speeches throughout, departures

from the true idiom of the characters, inserted so that the
dialogue might be accented. Both characters and dialogue
suffered.
In summary, then: good dialogue is the product of char-
acters carefully chosen and permitted to grow dialectically,
until the slowly rising conflict has proved the premise.

4. Experimentation
QUESTION: I don't see how anyone can experiment, with the
rigid rules you lay down. According to your warning, if
an unfortunate playwright omits any one of the ingredi-
ents you say a play must contain, the consequences will be
dire. Don't you know that man makes rules just to break
them—and that he often gets away with it?
INSWER: Yes, we know. You can do almost anything with
this approach—experiment to your heart's content; just
as a man can go under water, fly, live in the arctics or the
tropics. But he cannot live without his heart or lungs, and
you cannot write a good play without the basic ingredients.
Shakespeare was one of the most daring experimenters of
his day. To break any one of Aristotle's three unities was
a major crime, yet Shakespeare broke all three: the unities
of time, place, and action. Every great writer, painter, musi-
cian, has broken some ironclad rule which was held sacred.
QUESTION: YOU are strengthening my argument.
ANSWER: Then examine the work of these men. You'll find
character development through conflict. They broke all
rules—save the fundamental ones. They built on character.
A three-dimensional character is the foundation of all good
plays. You'll see perpetual transition in their work. And
above all, you'll find direction: a clear-cut premise. Further-
246 GENERAL

more, if you know what to look for, you'll find sharp or-
chestration as well. They were dialectical, without know-
ing it.
There are no two men who talk alike, think alike, speak
alike. And there are no two men who write alike. You are
very wrong if you imagine that the dialectical approach
tries to force every man's play into the same mold. On the
contrary, we ask you not to confuse originality with trick-
ery. Do not look for special effects, surprises, atmosphere,
mood, without knowing that all of them, and more, are in
the character. Experiment as you choose—but within the
laws of nature. Anything can be created within these laws.
It is interesting to know that stars are born as men are:
the attraction of opposites brings forth a nebulous form
of matter which will evolve if conditions are favorable.
Transition is prevalent there, too. Every nebula, every
star, every sun, is different, but their composition of ele-
ments is the same. Stars are as dependent upon each other
as humans. If their relationship were not fixed, they would
collide almost instantaneously, destroying each other. The
stars have vagabonds, too—comets, but they are controlled
by the same laws. Now, since everything is dependent upon
everything else, characters are also dependent upon each
other. They must have certain basic elements in common
—the three dimensions. Beyond that, you can experiment
as you choose. You can emphasize one trait above another;
you can enlarge details; you can deal with the subconscious;
you can try a variety of effects in form. You can do anything
conceivable, as long as you represent character.
QUESTION: HOW would you classify William Saroyan's My
Heart's in the Highlands?
ANSWER: AS an experiment, of course.
QUESTION: DO you think it is a good play?
ANSWER: NO. It is divorced from life. The characters live in
a vacuum.
EXPERIMENTATION 247

QUESTION: Then you disapprove of it?

ANSWER: Emphatically no. Every experiment, no matter how
bad the results, is worth the labor put into it in the long
view. Nature, too, is experimenting constantly. If the ex-
perimental creation miscarries, it is done away with, but
not before all the possibilities of improvement have been
exhausted. If you know anything about natural history, you
will have been struck by the way in which nature tries
every conceivable method of expressing herself.
When Matisse, Gauguin, Picasso, experimented with
painting, they did not throw away the basic principles of
composition. Rather, they reaffirmed them. One empha-
sized color, another form, the third design, but each built
on the rock bottom of composition, which is contradiction
in lines and in color.
In a bad play, people live as if they were self-sufficient,
alone in the world. A comet is not self-sufficient, nor is a
vagabond, who must beg, steal, or borrow to live. Every-
thing in nature and in society is dependent on other things,
whether it be an actor, the sun, or an insect.
Here is an experiment that nature performed with a tree.
As you know, a tree grows toward the sun, despite obstacles.
But it happened, once, that an acorn dropped into a crevice
of a perpendicular rock. The seed sprouted, became a sap-
ling, and was normal except that it grew horizontally in-
stead of toward the sun. The rocky bed gave it no chance
. to straighten out. After a while it managed to turn upward,
having grown out from under its rocky roof, but it became
top-heavy and seemed sure to crash. Then a miraculous
thing happened. One of the top branches turned back
toward the hillside, dug into another crevice, and secured
a foothold. Another branch followed the first, and still an-
other, until the tree was well supported. This so-called ex-
periment by nature is no experiment at all, because it hap-
pened under the inescapable force of necessity. Necessity
248 GENERAL

makes characters do things they would never think of doing

under normal circumstances.
Artists and writers experiment because they feel that it
is necessary for them to do so if they are fully to express
their characters. Their experimentation, even if we refuse
to accept it, is good, because we learn from it.
We want to emphasize over and over again that nature
is invariably dialectical in all her manifestations. Even that
tree we spoke of before had a premise. There was orches-
tration between the tree and gravity. There was conflict
between gravity and the tree's will to live. There was transi-
tion in the growth of the tree, the action of the branches.
There was crisis and climax, and resolution in the tree's
victory. What nature did with a tree a playwright can do
with characters. He can experiment if he follows the funda-
mental principles of dialectics.

5. The Timelines of a Play

QUESTION: I agree with most of the things you've told me
about playwriting. But what about the selection of a timely
subject? We may find a clean-cut, legitimate premise, which
promises plenty of conflict, and yet have a manager turn
it down because it is not timely.
ANSWER: The moment you start to worry about the opinion
the managers will have of your play, you are lost. If you
have a deep-rooted conviction, write it, regardless of what
the public and the managers think. The moment you try
to think with another man's head, you might as well stop
writing. If your play is good, the public will like it.
QUESTION: Isn't it true that there are subjects which are timely
while others are not?
ANSWER: Everything is timely if it is well written. Human
values remain the same if they grow naturally out of the
THE TIMELINESS OF A PLAY 249

forces around them. Human lives have always been pre-

cious, and always will be. A man of Aristotle's day, por-
trayed honestly, and in his environment, can be as exciting
as any man of today. We are given the chance to contrast
his day with ours. We can see the progress which has been
made since then, and guess the road ahead of us. Haven't
you ever seen an up-to-the-minute play which was as dull
as two mothers reciting the virtues of their offspring? But
Abe Lincoln in Illinois, by Robert E. Sherwood, is im-
portant for today; The Little Foxes, by Lillian Hellman,
which takes place in the early nineteen hundreds, is su-
perior to the crop of that year for the simple reason that
the characters have been given a chance to grow. Family
Portrait concerns Jesus' family and is not exactly spot news,
but it is exciting. On the other hand, there is The Ameri-
can Way by Kaufman and Hart, and No Time for Comedy,
by S. N. Behrman. Both deal with actual and burning issues
of the day, yet neither is new nor alive. Plays which are
valid and well written, like A Doll's House, will reflect
their time forever.
QUESTION: I still feel some topics are more timely than others.
For instance, the plays of Noel Coward are about useless
people who neither add to nor subtract from the main
stream of progress. Is it worth while to write of such people?
ANSWER: Yes—but in better plays, of course. Coward hasn't
a single real character in his plays. If he had created tri-
dimensional characters; if he had penetrated their back-
grounds, their motivations, their relationship with society,
their premises, their disappointments, the plays would have
been worth seeing.
Although literature has been dealing with man for hun-
dreds of years, we only began to understand character in
the nineteenth century. Shakespeare, Moliere, Lessing,
even Ibsen, knew character instinctively rather than sci-
entifically. Aristotle declared that character was second-
250 GENERAL

ary to action. Archer said that it must be in an author to

penetrate character. Still other authorities admit that char-
acter is a mystery to them. It is pleasant to know that science
provides a precedent for our disagreement with Aristotle
and his interpreters. Millikan, one of the. greatest American
scientists, Nobel prize winner, stated a few years ago that
the conversion of atomic energy to use was a pipe dream,
never to be realized, because we are forced to use more
energy in breaking down the atom than we can ever hope
to get out of it. But then another Nobel prize winner,
Arthur H. Compton, declared that actino-uranium, if com-
pletely converted into energy, would yield two hundred
and thirty-five billion volts per atom. Actino-uranium
breaks up into two gigantic atomic bullets of one hundred
million volts each upon bombardment with a neutron
carrying an energy of only about one fortieth of a volt,
thus releasing eight billion times more energy than was
originally put in. Character possesses limitless energy, too,
but many playwrights have yet to learn how to release it
and use it for their purposes. Wherever there is a man,
whether it be in the past, present, or future, there can be
an important play—provided the character is portrayed in
all its three dimensions.
QUESTION: Then there is no difference what era I tackle, if
I realize tridimensional characters?
ANSWER: When you say tridimensional, we hope you under-
stand that environment is included, and that that means
a thorough knowledge, on your part, of the customs, mor-
als, philosophy, art, and language of that time. If you write,
for instance, of the fifth century B.C., you must know that
era as you are supposed to know your own. Personally, we
suggest that you stay here, in the twentieth century, per-
haps in your own town or city, and write about people
whom you know. Your task will be much easier. The
ENTRANCES AND EXITS 251

timeliness of your play will be timeless if you realize your

characters in their physical, sociological, and psychological
dimensions.

6. Entrances and Exits

QUESTION: I have a friend, a playwright, who has a great deal
of difficulty with entrances and exits. Can you give a few
pointers on this?
ANSWER: Tell him to integrate his characters more thor-
oughly than he has done.
QUESTION: HOW do you know he didn't integrate them?
ANSWER: When you find the floor near the windows wet after
a rainstorm, it is logical to suppose that the windows were
open during the downpour. Trouble with entrances and
exits indicates that the playwright doesn't know his char-
acters well enough. When the curtain rises in Ghosts, we
find Engstrand and his daughter, who serves at the Alving
house, on the stage. Almost at once she warns him not to
talk loud enough to wake Oswald, who has arrived home
from Paris tired. Besides, she feels that it is not Engstrand's
business how long Oswald sleeps, when the old man com-
ments. He suggests, slyly, that she may have designs on
Oswald. Regina is furious, indicating the truth of the
thrust. This conversation, besides its other virtues, pre-
pares us for Oswald's entrance later. We learn from Eng-
strand that Manders is in the city, and from Regina that
he is expected at any moment. Manders' entrance is well
grounded, but it is not a device. There is every reason, in
the play, for Manders' appearance at this time. Regina
pushes Engstrand out, and Manders enters. She has much
to say to him—none of it idle chatter. The talk is deeply
integrated and grows from the previous scene. Manders
252 GENERAL

is forced to call Mrs. Alving, in order to escape from Re-

gina's insinuations. In the pause before she enters he picks
up a book—a gesture which motivates an important scene
to come. Mrs. Alving enters, in answer to Manders' call.
We have had two entrances and two exits thus far, each
a necessary part of the play. Before Oswald actually enters,
there is much more talk of him, so that we look forward
to his entrance.
QUESTION: I see the point. But not everyone is an Ibsen. We
write differently today. The tempo of our plays is more
swift. We have no time for such elaborate preparation.
ANSWER: In Ibsen's time there were almost as many play-
wrights as there are today. How many of them can you
name? What happened to the others, who wrote popular
but bad plays? They've been forgotten, as will all those
who think as you do. Yes, times have changed, customs
have changed, but man still has a heart and lungs. Your
tempo may change, should change, but motivation must
remain. The cause and the effect may be different from
the cause and effect of a century ago, but they must be
present, clearly and logically. Environment, for instance,
was a vital influence. It still is. It was bad to send a char-
acter out of the room for a glass of water merely so that
two other characters could talk privately and then have
him return when they finish their chat. It is still inex-
cusable.
People can't wander in and out without rhyme or reason,
as they did in Idiot's Delight. Entrances and exits are as
much a part of a play's framework as are windows and doors
in a house. When someone comes in or goes out he must do
so of necessity. His action must help the development of the
conflict and be part of the character in the process of reveal'
ing himself.
WHY ARE SOME BAD PLAYS SUCCESSFUL? 253

7. Why Are Some Bad Plays Successful?

Would-be playwrights often wonder whether it pays to
study, to go out of their way to write a good play, when plays
which aren't worth the paper they're written on make mil-
lions. What is behind these "successes"?
Let's look at one of these phenomenal successes: Abie's
Irish Rose. The play, despite its obvious shortcomings, had
a premise, conflict, and orchestration. The author dealt with
people whom the audience knew very well from life and
from vaudeville.The weak characterization was balanced by
this knowledge. The audience thought the characters were
real, although they were only familiar. Then, too, the audi-
ence was familiar with the religious problem involved and
felt the superiority which comes from being "in the know."
This was intensified by the climax. The audience was fas-
cinated by the problem of which religion would claim the
child. They took sides, mentally. When the climax—and the
twins—came, both sides were satisfied. Everyone was happy:
parents, grandparents, audience. We think the play succeeded
because the audience took an active part in making the char-
acters live.
Tobacco Road is a different case entirely. No doubt To-
bacco Road is a very bad play—but it has characters. We not
only see them—we smell them. Their sexual depravity, their
animal existence, capture the imagination. The audience
looks at them as it would at the man in the moon, if he were
displayed on the stage. The most poverty-stricken New York
audience feels that its fate is incomparably better than that
of the Lesters. Here again is the feeling of superiority. The
emphasis on the distortion of the characters obscures the
vital issue: social readjustment. The play has characters, but
no growth, which is why it is static, making its chief purpose
the exposition of these brutal, demoralized creatures. The
254 GENERAL

audience, mesmerized, flocked to see these animals who some-

how resembled human beings.
Noel Coward's extraordinary success arises from the fact
that his horrors are much more pleasant: who will sleep
with whom? Will he get her, will she get him? Remember
that Coward came after the World War, with his wealthy
English sophisticates, oh so eager to get everything they could
from life. A war-weary audience, surfeited with blood and
death, gobbled up his farces. The lines seemed witty because
they helped the audience to forget the battering the world
had taken. Coward, and many like him, came and lulled the
shocked audience into numbed relaxation. His reception to-
day would be tepid.
Kaufman and Hart's You Can't Take It with You wasn't
a bad play; it wasn't a play at all. It was a cleverly con-
structed vaudeville piece, with a premise. The characters
were amusing caricatures, no one of them related to the
other. Each had his own hobbies, needs, peculiarities. The
authors had a task in fitting them all into one scheme. It
succeeded because it presented a moral lesson which every-
one could approve without following; and it made the au-
dience laugh, which was its purpose.
Do not forget that most plays which become successful are
not terrible. Plays like Sherwood's Abe Lincoln in Illinois,
Kingsley's Dead End, Housman's Victoria Regina, Bein's Let
Freedom Ring, Carroll's Shadow and Substance, and Lillian
Hellman's Watch on the Rhine merit serious consideration,
despite their obvious shortcomings. And they are based on
character. The really bad plays had something strange about
them, something outlandish which put them over despite
their flaws. Tridimensional characters would have made them
even more successful.
If you are interested not in writing good plays, but in
making money quickly, there's no hope for you. Not only
won't you write a good play; you won't make any money.
MELODRAMA 255

We've seen hundreds of young playwrights work feverishly

at half-digested plays, under the impression that producers
were waiting in line to snatch them away. And we've seen
them disheartened when their manuscripts finished the
rounds. Even in business, those men go ahead who give the
customer more than he expected. If a play is written for the
sole purpose of making money, it will lack sincerity. Sin-
cerity cannot be manufactured, cannot be injected into a
play when you do not feel it.
We suggest that you write something you really believe
in. And, for heaven's sake, don't hurry. Play with your manu-
script, enjoy yourself. Watch your characters grow. Draw
characters who live in society, whose actions are forced by
necessity, and you will find that you've bettered your chances
of selling the play. Don't write for the producers or for the
public. Write for yourself.

8. Melodrama
Now for a word about the difference between drama and
melodrama. In a melodrama the transition is faulty or en-
tirely lacking. Conflict is overemphasized. The characters
move with lightning speed from one emotional peak to an-
other—the result of their one-dimensionality. The ruthless
killer, pursued by the police, suddenly stops to help a blind
man cross the street. This is phony on the surface. It is un-
likely that a man running for his life would even see the
blind man, let alone help him. And, certainly, a ruthless
killer would be more likely to shoot the blind man for
getting in his way than to make kindly gestures toward him.
Transition must be present to make even a three-dimensional
character believable. The lack of transition produces melo-
drama.
256 GENERAL

9. On Genius
Let us examine the definition of genius:
Genius is a transcendent capacity for taking trouble first of all.
—Frederick the Great by THOMAS CARLYLE
We agree.

From a maximum of observations the talented man draws a mini-

mum of conclusions, whereas the genius draws a maximum of con-
clusions from a minimum of observations.
—General Types of Superior Men by OSIAS L. SCHWARZ
We still agree.
Genius is the happy result of a combination of many circumstances.
—The Study of British Genius by HAVELOCK ELLIS
We shall come back to this later.
Genius: the mental endowment peculiar to an individual; that
disposition or aptitude of mind which qualifies a person for a
certain kind of action or special success in a given pursuit; extraor-
dinary mental superiority; unusual power of invention or origina-
tion of any kind.
—Webster's International Dictionary.
The "genius" can learn more rapidly than the average
man. He is inventive, he does things which do not occur to
the ordinary person. He is mentally superior. But none of
this means that a "genius" can be truly a genius without
serious study. We have seen mediocre men outstrip geniuses
who were too lazy to learn and to work. Call these latter
"half-talented," the fact remains that the world is littered
with them. Why do these mental giants remain obscure?
Why do so many of them die in misery? Look at their back-
ground, at their physiology, and you will see the answer.
ON GENIUS 257

Many never have the chance to go to school (poverty). Others

fall in with bad company and their extraordinary talent is
wasted on useless or evil ventures (environment). There are
others who study, but have a false picture of the subject under
consideration (education). You may claim that a real genius al-
ways finds a way to succeed, but that is not so. Every man
who has succeeded, despite adversity, has been given the
chance to do so.
The extraordinary mental power of a genius is not neces-
sarily strong enough to create his success. First, one must
have a start, an opportunity to deepen one's knowledge in
a chosen profession. A genius has the ability to work at
something longer and with more patience than any other man.
The implication here is that geniuses are not rare. Web-
ster's says that genius is the "disposition or aptitude of mind
which qualifies a person for a certain kind of action." This
"certain kind of action" is denied to many who have the
aptitude. What is this type of man supposed to do if he is
forced by circumstance to engage in action which is exactly
opposite to the "certain kind" for which he is qualified? In
this case the word "certain" possesses the utmost importance.
A genius is a genius in only one thing, "a certain kind of
action." There are exceptions, of course: Leonardo da Vinci,
Goethe—perhaps a dozen rare men in the history of man-
kind who excelled in more than one field. But we are speak-
ing of the others: men like Shakespeare, Darwin, Socrates,
Jesus—each a genius in one field. Shakespeare had the good
fortune to be connected with the theater, though that con-
nection was lowly at first. Darwin came from a well-to-do
family which considered him a failure despite his college
degree. And then he was taken on an expedition to the
tropics, and the mind which was "qualified for a certain kind
of action" had a chance to display its aptitude. And so with
the others.
No one is born to be great. We love one certain subject
258 GENERAL

more than any other. Given all we need to further our knowl-
edge, we are likely to make great strides; forced to do some-
thing else, we become disgruntled, discouraged, and end in
failure.
We call an apple tree an apple tree before it bears fruit.
But isn't it different with genius? May it not be said that a
genius is a man who has accomplished something, and not
a man who has almost accomplished something, or who
wanted to accomplish something and has been thwarted in
some way?
Not if the quotations above make sense. Not one speaks
of accomplishment. They merely try to analyze the material
of which genius is made. Success is a happy combination of
circumstances which help a genius to expand, to produce the
thing for which he has infinite capacity. That is the meaning
of the quotation from Havelock Ellis. Nor is there anything
wrong with Osias L. Schwarz' observation that "a genius
draws a maximum of conclusions from a minimum of obser-
vations." But does this hold true only if the genius happens
to succeed? Does an apple seed cease to be an apple seed if
it is carried to the heart of the city and deposited on hard
asphalt, to be crushed by heavy wheels? No, it remains an
apple seed anywhere, although it is denied the chance to
fulfill its destiny.
A fish lays millions of eggs, of which only one in a thousand
live. Out of those hatched, only a few reach maturity. Yet
every single egg was a bona fide fish egg, having all the at-
tributes necessary for the development of a fish. They were
eaten by other fishes, and those eggs which survived owe
nothing to their clever insight. Ellis is right: "Genius is the
happy result of a combination of many circumstances." Sur-
vival is one of these, inheritance another. Freedom from pov-
erty is a third, although many of the known geniuses which
mankind has produced came from the lower reaches of society,
fighting every inch of the way toward the sun. Poverty could
WHAT IS ART?—A DIALOGUE 259

not keep down these few but it does keep down thousands of
others who would have succeeded had "the happy result of
a combination of many circumstances" favored them.
As for all the braggarts who run around, beating their
collective chests and claiming to be geniuses, we cannot dis-
miss them out of hand. They are offensive, but some of them
may be the genuine article.
It is said that all murderers claim innocence, insist that
they were railroaded. Criminal history teaches us that some
of them really were innocent, despite the derisive laughter
of those who "knew better."
Yet we must not forget one important attribute of the
genius: an infinite capacity for taking pains in the field
where his interest lies. The majority of braggarts spend too
much time boasting to have much left for painstaking work.
We cannot emphasize too strongly the fact that, although
geniuses are equipped with uncommon powers of mental
absorption in their particular field, many of them are never
given the chance to approach the thing in which they are
interested. Remember that most geniuses are one-sided, and
you will see that in an alien atmosphere they have no chance
to develop.
A fish out of water is a dead fish, and a genius kept from
his art is often a simpleton.

10. What Is Art?—A Dialogue

QUESTION: Would you say that one individual embodies
within himself good and bad, noble and depraved thoughts?
Is it in every character to be a martyr or a betrayer?
ANSWER: Yes. A man not only represents himself and his
race, but mankind. His physical development is, on a small
scale, the same as that of mankind as a whole. Starting in
his mother's womb, he goes through all the metamorphoses
260 GENERAL

man underwent from the time he started his long journey

from the protoplasm. And the same laws apply to man and to
nations. Man fumbles through mist, over unchartered
roads, as the tribes, groups, and races once did. In his child-
hood, in his adolescence, in his manhood, he experiences
the same tribulations, the same battle for happiness that
nations experience. One man is the replica of all. His weak-
ness is our weakness, his greatness our greatness.
QUESTION: Must I be my brother's keeper? I don't want to
be responsible for his actions. I am an individual.
ANSWER: SO is a cat, or a rat, or a lion, or an insect. Take
termites. They have females who do nothing but lay eggs.
They have workers, guards, soldiers, and other individuals
whose sole function is to be stomach for the community.
They chew the fibrous raw food, digest it, and only then
is it fit to eat. All the members of this insect society flock
to this individual, this living stomach, and suck the pre-
pared food to sustain life. Each has a specific function, each
is indispensable. Destroy any branch of this well-organized
society and all of it will perish. Separately, they cannot live,
any more than a nerve, a lung, or a liver can live without
the rest of the body. Put together, these individual insects
make an individual—society. It is the same with your body.
Every part functions separately; co-ordinated all these
separate parts make one man. And a man, too, is only part
of the whole: mankind. Every individual in a termite
family has its own personality, just as every leg, arm, or
lung has its own characteristics, but it is still only part of
the whole. It is for this reason that you had best be your
brother's keeper; he and you are parts of the same whole,
and his misfortune necessarily affects you.
QUESTION: If one man is the possessor of all the attributes
of mankind, what chance have I of depicting him in to-
tality?
ANSWER: It isn't an easy task, by any means, but your charac-
WHAT IS ART?—A DIALOGUE 26l

ter drawing is good only to the extent that you approach

this "totality." Only by aiming for perfection in art can
you succeed, even if you never reach your goal.
QUESTION: What is art, anyway?
ANSWER: Art is, in a microscopic form, the perfection not
only of mankind but of the universe.
QUESTION: Universe? Aren't you going a little bit too far?
ANSWER: The protozoan is composed of the same elements
as the human body cells. The conglomeration of millions
of these cells, the body, contains the same elements as
each individual cell. Each cell has its specific function in
the society of cells which is the body, just as each man has
his function in the society of men which is the world. And
just as the cell represents the man, and the man the so-
ciety, so does the society represent the universe. The uni-
verse is governed by the same general laws that govern hu-
man society. The compound, the mechanism, the action
and reaction are the same.
When a dramatist creates one perfect human being he
reproduces not only the man but the society to which he
belongs, and that society is only an atom of the universe.
So the art which created the man reflects the universe.
QUESTION: The "perfection" you speak of might become a
slavish imitation of nature, or an enumeration of the con-
tents of a human being.
ANSWER: Are you afraid of knowledge? Does it hurt an engi-
neer to know the science of mathematics, the law of gravity,
the tension of the material with which he is working? He
must know everything that pertains to his profession, be-
fore we can ask whether he possesses the talent to produce
a bridge which will be a joy to look at, as well as a useful
construction. His knowledge of the exact sciences does not
exclude imagination, taste, grace in actual execution. The
same holds true of playwrights. Some men may obey all
the laws of technique, yet their work is lifeless. Others—
262 GENERAL

and there have been such men—utilize all the available

data, obey the rules which they find valid, and fuse this
information with their emotions. They lift their knowledge
on the wings of their imagination, and create a masterwork.

11. When You Write a Play

Be sure to formulate a premise.
Your next step will be to choose the pivotal character,
who will force the conflict. If your premise happens to be
"Jealousy destroys itself and the object of its love," the man
or the woman who will be jealous should be inherent in
your premise. The pivotal character must be a person who
will go all the way to avenge his injury, whether it be real
or imaginary.
The next step will be to line up the other characters. But
these characters have to be orchestrated.
The unity of opposites must be binding.
Be careful to select the correct point of attack. It must be
the turning point in the life of one or more of your characters.
Every point of attack starts with conflict. But don't forget
that there are four kinds of conflict: static, jumping, fore-
shadowing and slowly rising. You want only rising and fore-
shadowing conflict.
No conflict can rise without perpetual exposition, which is
transition.
Rising conflict, the product of exposition and transition,
will ensure growth.
Characters who are in conflict will go from one pole to
another—like hate to love—which will create crisis.
If growth continues in a steady rise, climax will follow
crisis.
The aftermath of climax is the conclusion.
Be sure that the unity of opposites is so strong that the
WHEN YOU WRITE A PLAY 263

characters will not weaken or quit the play in the middle.

Every character has to have something at stake, as, for ex-
ample, property, health, future, honor, life. The stronger
the unity of opposites, the more certain you can be that your
characters will prove your premise.
Dialogue is as important as any other part of a play. Every
word uttered should stem from the characters involved.

Brander Matthews and his pupil, Clayton Hamilton (in

his The Theory of the Theatre), insist that a play can be
judged only in a theater, before an audience.
Why? We grant that it is easier to see life in a flesh-and-
blood actor than on a printed page, but why should that be
the only way of recognizing it? What a waste of material there
would be if builders used the same method of judgment.
Houses would be built in actual size and material before the
prospective owners decided whether or not they wanted that
kind of house at all; bridges would span rivers before the
government could tell the engineer whether or not his bridge
was acceptable.
A play can be judged before it reaches actual production.
First, the premise must be discernible from the beginning.
We have a right to know in what direction the author is
leading us. The characters, growing out of the premise, neces-
sarily identify themselves with the aim of the play. They will
prove the premise through conflict. The play must start with
conflict, which rises steadily until it reaches the climax. The
characters must be so well drawn that, whether or not the
author has declared their individual backgrounds, we can
make out accurate case histories for each of them.
If we know the composition of character and conflict, we
should know what to expect from any play we read.
Between attack and counterattack, between conflict and
conflict, is transition, holding them together as mortar holds
bricks. We will look for transition as we look for characters.
264 GENERAL

and if we do not find it we will know why the play progresses

by leaps and bounds, instead of growing naturally. And if we
find too much exposition, we know that the play will be static.
If we read a play in which the author discusses his characters
in minute detail without starting his conflict, we know he is
ignorant of the ABC of dramatic technique. When the char-
acters are obscure, the dialogue rambling and confused, we
need no production to determine whether the play is good or
bad. It must be bad.
A play should start at a turning point in the life of one of
the characters. We can see, after the first few pages, whether
or not this is the case in the play. Similarly, we can learn, in
our first few minutes of reading, whether or not the char-
acters are orchestrated. No production is necessary to tell us
these things.
The dialogue must stem from the character, not the author.
It must indicate the character's background, personality, and
occupation.
If we read a play which is cluttered up with people who
do nothing to further the ultimate aim, who are there simply
for comic relief or variety, we know that the play is funda-
mentally bad.
To say that we must have a production to judge a play
is, to say the least, begging the question. It shows an ignorance
of the fundamentals of playwriting and the need of an outside
stimulus to make a vital decision.
True, many a good play has been ruined by bad casting
or an inadequate production. By the same token, many a
good actor has been thrown out of gear by a bad play. Give
Fritz Kreisler, the great fiddler, a Woolworth violin to play on
and see what happens to his artistry. Reverse this and give a
person who is ignorant of music, a Stradivarius. The results
will be disastrous.
We are not unaware of the answers we may expect. "Art,"
certain men have said—and will say—"is not an exact science,
HOW TO GET IDEAS 265

such as bridge building or architecture. Art is governed by

moods, emotions, personal approach. It is subjective. You
cannot tell a creator what formula to use when he is inspired.
He uses what his spark of inspiration points out. There is no
set rule."
Every man writes as he pleases, of course, but there are
certain rules he must follow. He is forced, for instance, to
use a writing instrument and something on which to write.
These may be ancient or modern, but you cannot do with-
out them. There are rules of grammar, and even those writers
who employ the stream-of-consciousness technique are ob-
serving certain rules of construction. As a matter of fact, a
writer like James Joyce sets up rules far more rigid than the
. average writer is able to follow. So, in playwriting, there is no
conflict between personal approach and basic rules. If you
know the principles, you will be a better craftsman and artist.
It wasn't a simple task to learn the alphabet. Do you re-
member when a "B" looked dangerously like a "D," the
"W" like a drunken "M"? It was difficult to make sense of
what you read when you were so occupied in watching the
letters themselves. Did you imagine there would be a time
when you could write without stopping to think that there
was such a thing as "A" or "W"?

12. How to Get Ideas

Whenever you have a fully rounded character who wants
something very badly, you have a play. You don't need to
think about situations. This militant character creates his
own situations.
On page 130 of this book is a list of abstract nouns. Read
it.
You must first remember that art is not the mirror of life,
266 GENERAL

but the essence of life. When you take a basic emotion, you
might as well emphasize that emotion or trait.
If you write about love, you should write about great love.
If you write about ambition, it should be ruthless ambition.
If you choose affection, it should be possessive affection. They
generate conflict.
Let us take the simple noun "affection." Affection was the
motivating emotion in The Silver Cord. This is not an ordi-
nary affection or love. It is a selfish, over-possessive love of a
mother for her sons.
It is not enough, of course, to know that a person is pos-
sessive; you must know why. Generally, insecurity and the
desire to be important are the fundamental reasons for all ex-
aggerated traits. The mother wanted to be the center of in-
terest, instead of permitting the women her sons brought
home to have their natural importance.
Affection is a basic human need, but affection, overdone,
can be crushing. If you wish to escape from excessive affection,
you find it almost impossible. After all, what can you do about
a person who loves you? If you are a decent fellow you are
bound hand and foot to the one who loves you, although you
may wish to be a million miles away.
Drama must not only entertain but teach as well. The
dramatist interprets man to man. When you see a character
on the stage causing unhappiness, you might recognize your-
self in the same act.
Let us go back to page 130 and take the word abusive.

Abusive: An abusive character suggests one who doesn't

realize his own shortcomings. He is shortsighted, narrow-
minded, lacks imagination. He tries to do the right thing
but can't. He doesn't know how. This man will inevitably
force you into conflict.
HOW TO GET IDEAS 267

Accuracy: Can you imagine living with a man who is accurate

twenty-four hours a day? Such a person must be abhor-
rent; his perfection demands perfection from everyone
else. You must note that it is impossible for a human
being to be one hundred per cent perfect, but of course
the perfectionist is not aware that he is an ordinary
human being too, who also has faults and weaknesses.
And so, such an individual must create conflict with the
people around him.
Conceit: A conceited person (not one with the ordinary
amount of vanity, but an ego-maniac) must necessarily be
hypersensitive. He is quick to take offense at any real or
imaginary criticism. He is so terribly insecure that he
must bloat his own ego constantly to reassure himself of
his own importance. Such a person must always have
things done his own way, and it takes adroit handling
and diplomacy on the part of others to accomplish any-
thing with him. Such a person must inevitably lose the
love, affection, and respect of those around him—and
therein lies your play.
Dignity: An overdignified person (remember we must exag-
gerate this trait) should be good material for a comedy.
Your character would be pompous, a stuffed shirt,
mortally afraid of stepping out of line the least bit. Put
him in conflict with a person who is just his opposite,
make sure to create a unity of opposites between them so
that they cannot separate, and you have a hilarious play.
Wisdom: Too much of anything, even a good thing, can be
very irritating. Your wise person who is always right, who
never makes a mistake, can make the ordinary mortals
around him feel very stupid and unimportant. Even
though they admire and respect him, the fact that he
makes them feel inferior instead of making them love
him, which he desires most, makes them rebellious, re-
sentful, and angry.
268 GENERAL

There are people who start things and never finish them.
There are the eternal procrastinators, who will always do the
thing tomorrow. There are the impulsive, who act first and
think later. There are, in fact, thousands of human traits,
emotions, qualities which can create characters for a play, a
novel, or a story.
You can take an honest-to-goodness person, a real individ-
ual, but with one of these traits exaggerated. You will have
so many characters for plays or novels that it would take more
than a lifetime to write half of them.
Every word on page 130 represents a character. Let us see
again: Clumsy: You needn't take a stock character, a "dolt."
Take a woman who is beautiful and clever, but clumsy.
Anybody who overdoes something is good material for a
story. Remember: Your characters must be militant. A mili-
tant person is bound to expose himself through conflict. The
secret of happiness is the understanding that no one is perfect;
we must always realize that there is room for improvement
for all of us.
You must feel your story deeply—in fact, it should be a
conviction of yours. You must never be afraid of conflict in
your writing, because if you do, you will have a dull and static
piece of work in whatever form you happen to use.
Even a good idea at best is only an idea. What is an idea
anyway? A seed. Nothing more, nothing less. It's up to you to
do something with it. Any idea without three-dimensional
characters isn't worth a plugged nickel.
Allegory or any imaginative conceptions are good only if
they represent human aspirations.
To get an idea for any type of writing is the easiest thing.
Look around you and be observant. Be observant and you will
be forced to admit that the world is an inexhaustible pastry
shop and you are permitted to choose from the delicacies the
tastiest bits for yourself.
Here are a few characters you might try your strength on. I
HOW TO GET IDEAS 269

tried to find out what goes into a character. The following are
types. You should make living people out of them.

What Makes a Ruthless Character?

(A ruthless character is not necessarily bad.)
Something vital at stake
Can't turn back
Determination
Ambition
Desperation
Cornered—trapped
Fear of failure
Truthfulness (Militant)
Great Passion (Love, Hate, Greediness, Jealousy, etc.)
Fixation on goal
Self-centeredness
One-track mind
Farsightedness
Revengefulness
Opportunism
Greediness
Vindictiveness

This is a composite of many ruthless characters. Pick your

own.

A Shiftless Man suggests:

Day-dreaming
Lack of initiative
Laziness
One who has no objective in life
Devil-may-care

A Clever Man suggests:

Shrewdness
Quick-wittedness
 GENERAL

Persuasiveness
Observation
Intellect
Talent
A good psychologist

A Bored Person suggests:

Slow-wittedness
Egotist
Self-centeredness
Worry or fear
Lacking in insight, observation or intelligence
Blase

Ill-Temper suggests:
Inconsiderate
Irascible
Nervous
Lacking in understanding
Impatient
Frustrated
Hating
Sick
Self-willed
Spoiled
Quick-witted

Anti-Social suggests:
Cruel
Rapacious
Inhibited
Inhuman
Ruthless
Anything which hurts mankind
Bigoted
Perverse
HOW TO GET IDEAS 271

Love of Luxury suggests:

Self-indulgent
Sensuousness
Self-expression
Great hunger for beauty
Decadence
Over-indulgence

Self-Righteousness suggests:
Hypercritical
Bigoted
Fearful
Insecure
Inferiority complex
Domineering
Egotistical
Selfishness
Gossipy
Fighter

Mistrustfulness suggests:
Insecurity
Guilt complex
Skepticism
Sneakiness
Vanity
Cowardly
Unhappy
No power of evaluation
Inferiority complex

Bigotry suggests:
Narrow, judging others according to a single set of standards
Conformist, righteous, unimaginative
Cold anger
272 GENERAL

Propriety
Inflexibility
Reactionary
Formal
Courteous
Polite
Zealot (A zealot is bigoted, but a bigot is not necessarily a zealot
yet.)
Guilt complex

A Cad suggests:
Egotist
Unscrupulous
Selfishness
Envy
Insecurity
Vanity
Fickle
Loneliness
Inferiority complex
Lacks ability to do something creative

Ambition suggests:
Rebellion against the status quo
Desire for recognition
Desire to justify existence
Dissatisfaction
Craving for change
Craving for fame
Escape from frustration
Craving for power
Jealousy
Control
Desire to entertain
Self-fulfillment
HOW TO GET IDEAS 273

Ruthlessness
Desire to be secure

You can go on from here, finding new, exciting ideas ad

infinitum, with only old age or lack of imagination to stop
you.

QUESTION: I suppose all these examples will help me get ideas,

but . . . I don't understand why people, characters, must
be the epitome of their type. People in real life are not
necessarily mad, or as extreme as the characters you say we
should look for. Following your suggestions, I am afraid,
our stories or plays will be more exaggerated than normal.
ANSWER: Were you ever so angry that people thought you were
losing your mind? No? Other people were. Were you ever
so jealous that you thought you couldn't bear it any longer?
If your answer happens to be "no," you are a rare one, and
you'll never understand the motivation of a mere human.

There are times when the most normal people feel that the
most dreadful revenge is an absolute necessity. A writer is
supposed to catch people in crises. Unfortunately, in a crisis,
no one behaves normally. If you ever went through a cataclysm,
you will understand not only the mental state of your
characters in crises, but the motivation, the tortuous road
your people wandered down to their sad or triumphant
destination.
When we read in a story or see on the stage, cruelty, vio-
lence, abuse, and all the passion that will transform men into
beasts, we really see ourselves as we were, perhaps only for
moments, sometime in our lives.
No doubt about it, there were ruthless characters through-
out history, and they were the ones who influenced, for better
or for worse, the destiny of man.
Let me emphasize it once more—it is worth your while to
274 GENERAL

write about people only when they have arrived at a turning

point in their lives. Their example will become a warning or
an inspiration for us.

13. Writing for Television

Anyone who knows how to write a good one-act play need
not fear that he must have additional talent to write for that
new and exciting medium, television.
They tell you that from the moment a play starts on the
television screen, the story must have the power to hold the
audience spellbound to the very end. This is nothing new to a
good playwright. We dealt with this very principle under
"Point of Attack." How to generate interest and conflict in
television is exactly the same as in a good play. The principle
is no different: suspense, the foreshadowing of conflict, should
hover over everything from the very beginning.
There is a difference between a one-act play and a half-hour-
long play for television in that while the one-acter will
usually use only one set, a television show uses three or four
and they can be alternated as often as the play requires.
Television producers prefer as few characters as possible.
The author of a television play need not worry about camera
angles or any other technical peculiarities of a production.
His script should not indicate camera directions. To allow
for the insertion of these directions later, however, his script
should be typed on only one half of the page—one side. A
television script usually runs from forty to fifty half-pages.
The instructions are all typed in capitals.
Here is the beginning of a television show written by two
of my students and produced on "Danger" (CBS). It will give
you an idea of the way to present your script.
WRITING FOR TELEVISION 275

THE ANNIVERSARY
A Play for Television
by
EVELYN CORNELL
and
JOHN T. CHAPMAN

CHARACTERS:
Katharine McCloud
Alan McCloud
Charlie Dean
Mrs. Bryce
Josef Kucharski
The Prosecuting Attorney
The Judge
A Delivery Boy

SCENE:
The McClouds' renovated farmhouse in Connecticut. The
front door has a heavy glass panel and opens into a wide
central hallway which has double doors leading at the left
into a dining room and other doors at the right leading into
the living room. Stairs in the hall lead to the second floor. A
door to the kitchen is in the dining room. The bedroom and
the courtroom may be small insets.
It is an early spring day.
[Mrs. Bryce enters dining room from kitchen, carrying
coffee service which she takes to sideboard. She is fortyish,
typically rural New England. At a sound in hall she turns to
double doors as Alan McCloud enters, tossing hat, topcoat
and briefcase onto chair. He is about 35, thin and harassed—
looking decidedly irritable at the moment.]
276 GENERAL

MRS. BRYCE: Good morning, Mr. McCloud.

ALAN: Morning, Mrs. Bryce. Is coffee ready?
MRS. BRYCE: Yes, sir. Will you be having eggs?
ALAN: [sits at table] I'm afraid there isn't time,Mrs. Bryce. I
have to take the early train into town. Court opens this
morning and the case I have been working on is first on
the docket . . . [She pours coffee, he puts his face into his
hands, straightens as she brings cup.] Let's see . . . Thurs-
day . . . I wonder if you'd mind not taking your after-
noon off today? [She looks at him, prepared to object.] Mrs.
McCloud is . . . she hasn't been very well and has been
having trouble sleeping . . .

GLOSSARY OF TV TERMS

B.C.U.: Abbreviation for Big Close-up.

BRIDGE: A connecting link between one scene or action and
another. Most usually a term in nondramatic writing; the
term "transition" is used in dramatic writing.
CLOSE-UP: Camera concentration on an object or a person.
With a person the frame would be entirely filled by the
head and shoulders.
COLD: Music, sound, or voices heard alone or in clear.
CROSS-FADE: T O fade out one picture and to fade in another.
Audio—to fade out one sound and to fade in another.
CUT: TO stop an action, cameras, etc.
CUT TO: TO switch from one camera to another—hence, one
picture to another.
DISSOLVE: T O fade out one picture as another picture simulta-
neously is faded in.
DISSOLVE IN: T O fade in a new picture.
DISSOLVE OUT: T O fade out a picture.
DIRECT CUT: An abrupt visual transition from the image of
one camera to the image of another. -
WRITING FOR TELEVISION 277

DOLLY TO: Motion by a camera as it moves toward or away

from an object.
DOLLY IN: T O move the camera toward an object or person.
DOLLY OUT: T O move the camera back from an object.
FADE-IN: Video—a picture gradually appears on a dark screen.
Audio—to bring up, gradually, the volume of a voice, a
sound, or music.
FADE-OUT: Video—a picture gradually fades from full bright-
ness until the screen is dark. Audio—to diminish the
volume of a sound until it is no longer audible.
FILM CLIP: Film inserted into a live telecast.
FRAME: What the camera sees from a fixed position.
FULL BACK: T O dolly out from a close-up.
LONG SHOT: A shot which includes the foreground as well as
the background.
IN: Music comes in.
IN CLEAR: The same as cold.
OVER FRAME: The speaker or the source of the sound is not
visible in the frame of the picture.
PANNING: T O begin a shot at one position and to move to
another position without a break.
SNEAK: T O bring in music, sound, or voices at an extremely
low level of volume.
SUSTAIN: Keep the music going.
UNDER: Music goes on under dialogue or narration.
BACK WITH MUSIC: Words spoken over musical background.
DOWN: The volume of the music is lowered.
Music IN B.G.: Music in the background.
OVER MUSIC: Words spoken over musical background.
OUT: The music stops.
STING: T O punctuate with a sudden musical phrase or chord.
JP: The volume of the music is raised.
278 GENERAL

14. Conclusion
If you cannot differentiate between fragrances, you cannot
be a perfume maker; if you have no legs, you cannot be a
runner. If you are tone-deaf, you cannot be a musician.
To become a playwright you should be a man with im-
agination and common sense, to begin with. You must be
observant. You must never be satisfied with superficial knowl-
edge. You must have patience to search for causes. You must
have a sense of balance and good taste. You should know
economy, psychology, physiology, sociology. You can learn
these things with patience and hard work—and if you do not
learn them, no approach will make a good playwright of you.
We are often astonished at how glibly people decide to be
writers or playwrights. It takes about three years of appren-
ticeship to make a good shoemaker; the same is true of carpen-
try or any other skill. Why should playwriting—one of the
hardest professions in the world—be acquired overnight,
without serious study? The dialectical approach will help
those who have prepared for this work. It will also help the
beginner by giving him a clear picture of the obstacles in his
path and of the road he must travel if he is to achieve his
ambitions.
 APPENDIX A

PLAYS ANALYZED

1. Tartuffe
A Comedy in Three Acts
by
Molière
SYNOPSIS
TARTUFFE is a penniless scoundrel who, under the guise of
fervent religiousness, endears himself to Orgon, a wealthy ex-
officer of the King's Guard.
Once established in Orgon's home, Tartuffe proceeds to
reshape the family, endeavoring to lead them from their so-
cial life to a puritan one. His designs are really on Orgon's
lovely young wife. He induces Orgon to make his daughter
Mariane break her engagement with her beloved Valere,
saying she needs a pious man to lead her on to a pure life.
This infuriates Damis, Orgon's son, who is in love with
Valere's sister.
Damis catches Tartuffe making advances to his stepmother.
He tells his father in front of Tartuffe, but his father does not
believe him. Orgon insists that Damis apologize to Tartuffe.
Damis refuses, and his father, enraged, disowns him.
In the midst of this family turmoil, Orgon entrusts Tar-
tuffe with a box containing important information given
him by an exiled friend. The revealing of this information
means treason for Orgon and probably death to his friend.
Orgon believes so implicitly in Tartuffe's honesty and
*79
28o APPENDIX A

piousness that he deeds his whole estate to his care to manage

for him. To make the bond even closer, he wishes Tartuffe
to marry his daughter.
Orgon's wife, Elmire, embittered by these goings-on, en-
tices Tartuffe to make love to her while Orgon is hidden,
but within hearing. Disillusioned and outraged, Orgon orders
Tartuffe from his house, forgetting he has placed his estate
in Tartuffe's power.
The next day, Tartuffe uses his legal right to force Or-
gon and his family from their house and is ready to take
possession himself. He has also brought to the king the box
containing the secrets of Orgon's friend. The king recognizes
Tartuffe as a scoundrel who has committed crimes in another
city. Tartuffe is imprisoned. In view of Orgon's loyal services
in the army, the king returns the box unopened.

ANALYSIS

Premise
He who digs a pit for others falls into it himself.
Pivotal Character
Tartuffe forces the conflict.
Characters
Orgon is wealthy, an ex-officer, dominating, stupid, blindly
trusting, religious—but why? We never find out.
Tartuffe is a finely drawn character, suave, soft-spoken, a
clever psychologist. Yet we see only two sides of him—physical
and psychological. His background remains a blank. We
would like to know how he came to pursue a life of chicanery,
possessing, as he does, many abilities. Not knowing his back-
ground, we see the results, but not the causes which make him
what he is.
Elmire is a good stepmother and wife. She is much younger
PLAYS ANALYZED 28l

than her husband. Did she marry him for love, money, or
both? What makes her such a model wife when she is sadly
neglected by Orgon whose every thought is for Tartuffe?
Damis, the son, is lively and headstrong. We look to him
to help the situation. He succeeds only in angering his father
and being ordered from the house. He goes, leaving behind
a man who he knows will play havoc with his family. He
returns when bidden, and all is forgiven. He does not
grow.
Mariane, the daughter, is a weak young girl, too spineless
even to fight for the man she loves. Although in that era,
strict obedience to parental wishes was the rule, at least she
could have put up a violent protest for her love. When con-
fronted with her father's wishes, she remains dumb and re-
monstrates but weakly. She has to be pushed by her servant,
first to make up with her sweetheart, second, to defy her father
quietly; and we have little confidence in her. She is completely
static, prompted by her maid.
Cleante, Elmire's brother, contributes nothing to the play.
He merely tries to dissuade Orgon from his blind trust, as
everyone does. He goes out in the first act, having accom-
plished nothing, returns to persuade Tartuffe to make Orgon
forgive his son. He does not succeed, and we see him again
in the third act, for some additional dialogue. He does not
help the conflict.
Mme Pernelle, Orgon's mother, is used for exposition at
the opening of the play, returns at the end for a bit of comedy;
contributes nothing.
Valere, we see as Mariane's sweetheart, and he, at least, is
determined that she will marry no one but himself. He would
not be needed had Mariane the strength of character to fight
for her love. She has not, so Valere is necessary to the play to
fight for her. As an extra bit to prove how blind Orgon's
trust was, he shows he is a true friend when he offers to help
Orgon escape the police. By this time, however, Orgon realizes
282 APPENDIX A

his mistake fully, and this act of friendship proves what he

already knows.
Dorine is the saucy, outspoken, sharp servant who is neces-
sary to the play because, without her, some of the characters
would hardly move. In spite of her wit, she is a stale character,
for we like to see human beings move of their own accord
—which they do, when they are tridimensional and in the
proper conflict.
Orchestration
Orgon and Tartuffe are well matched, the one simple and
trusting, and the other crafty. Elmire, who is no match for
her husband, is yet able to outwit Tartuffe. Damis and Valere
are similar in type and hardly able to stand up against the
pivotal character. Mariane is colorless, ready to be blown
down by the slightest wind. Dorine, the maid, alone stands
out fearless and shrewd. She is best orchestrated with Tartuffe,
and we should have liked to see them in dual conflict.

Unity of Opposites
This is the strong bond which keeps the play together.
The love affairs of Mariane and Damis are vital to them. The
wish of the whole family to continue life undisturbed by
Tartuffe's interference keeps each from leaving the scene.
Of course, Elmire can leave her husband, and we don't see
why she doesn't because we know so little about her, but
possibly love or money holds her. We assume that one or
both are the reason.
Point of Attack
The crisis comes in the middle of the first act when Or-
gon decides to break his daughter's engagement to Valere
and marry her to Tartuffe. The first half of the act is pure
exposition, therefore the proper point of attack should have
been Orgon's decision, when something would have been at
stake.
PLAYS ANALYZED 283

Conflict
The first half of the first act is static. After that, the play
moves toward the crisis and climax, coming in waves, but
the conflicts are not powerful enough, because the opposition
to Orgon by his family is in protest, rather than open defiance.

Transition
In the case of Orgon and Tartuffe, the transitions are
good. In Act Two, Tartuffe deftly goes from piousness to
an open declaration of his love and desire for Elmire, still
attempting to cloak his passion in the light of a heavenly
emotion.
Orgon gradually goes deeper and deeper in his blindness
regarding Tartuffe.
Throughout the play, barring a few exceptions, transi-
tions are excellently handled.

Growth
Tartuffe goes from deception to humiliation. Orgon, from
trust to disillusionment.
The rest of the family do not grow. They start by hating
Tartuffe and end still hating him. The only growth is in
Elmire, the young wife. She goes from passiveness to the
actual action of tricking Tartuffe. Yet in emotion she re-
mains the same. We would expect her to grow in stature in
the eyes of her husband, or else to change from an obedient
to an independent wife. She does not.
Crisis
When Elmire induces Orgon to hide while she plans to
expose Tartuffe.
Climax
Tartuffe is exposed. He orders Orgon and family to move.
284 APPENDIX A

Resolution
At the end, Tartuffe, on the verge of a perfect triumph,
is recognized by the king as a rogue who, under an assumed
name, had committed a series of crimes in Lyons, and Tar-
tuffe is arrested.
The premise is: "He who digs a pit for others falls into
it himself." The king's interference was a weak device to
prove the premise.
Dialogue
Good, especially in the case of Tartuffe and Orgon. Both
of the men's speeches can be identified with the characters.

2. Ghosts
by
Henrik Ibsen

SYNOPSIS
Mrs. Alving has built an orphanage which is to be dedi-
cated to her late husband. Mr. Manders, the priest, comes to
consult her on whether they should insure the building. To
do so would be to imply that they have no faith in God; to
fail to insure it would be a risk. Mrs. Alving agrees to do
without the insurance, but says she will not make good the
loss should the building burn.
Mrs. Alving's son Oswald has been home from abroad for
two days. He is an artist who has lived away from his parents
since he was seven. He holds, from experience, the same ideas
his mother has arrived at from books—ideas Mr. Manders
finds dreadful, since they deal with truth rather than with
duty.
 PLAYS ANALYZED 285

Engstrand, a disreputable old man, is the father of Regina,

a servant in the Alving home who has been educated by Mrs.
Alving. Engstrand wishes to open an inn for sailors and
wants Regina to work in it. But she has other ideas, having
to do with Oswald. He has appealed to the priest to force
Regina to do her duty. Mrs. Alving refuses to let Regina go.
Mr. Manders feels it is his duty to talk to Mrs. Alving
about her behavior. He reminds her that she was a bad wife,
that after only one year of marriage she left her husband
and ran to him for love and protection. And he is proud that
he sent her back. And now, he says, he finds her agreeing
with her son's wicked belief that there can be decency outside
of the church's sanction. Mrs. Alving lets him in on the secret
of her married life. She reveals to him that her husband never
mended his ways, that his good reputation was her doing. He
had been syphilitic when they married and he became more
profligate as the years passed. The culmination was his se-
duction of the housemaid—Regina's mother. Captain Alving,
not Engstrand, is the girl's father. It is on the heels of this
revelation that Oswald and Regina are heard in the dining
room, ghosts of their parents.
Oswald tells his mother that he is ill. He went to a doctor
who revealed the nature of his illness and remarked that
"the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children." Os-
wald, knowing only the glorious picture of his father that
his mother's letters have given him, is furious. He believes
that his own mild pleasures are to blame and is tortured by
the thought that he has brought about his own disaster.
He wants to marry Regina and make what is left of his life
happy.
Mrs. Alving decides to tell both the young people the truth,
but is interrupted by the news that the orphanage is on fire.
When the place is in ruins, we learn that Manders and Eng-
strand have been praying in the carpentry shop near by.
Engstrand insists that the priest dropped a burning wick into

^ _
286 APPENDIX A

some shavings. Manders is terrified at what this will do to

his position in the community, and Engstrand seizes the op-
portunity for blackmail. He will take the blame for the fire
if Manders will see that the money remaining from the
Captain's private fortune helps him build his inn. Manders
agrees gladly.
Mrs. Alving tells her story, and Regina is angry. She feels
she should have been educated and raised as Alving's daugh-
ter. She is glad that she did not marry Oswald, now that she
knows he is ill, and she decides to cast her lot with Eng-
strand. Alone with his mother, Oswald reveals the final hor-
ror. He is not merely ill. He is suffering from softening of
the brain, and as time goes by, he will be more and more
helpless. He knew that Regina would kill him if that were
the case, and he wants his mother to promise to do the same.
She refuses, horrified, as he shows her the morphia tablets.
But with the coming of dawn he has another attack and sits
blindly asking for the sun. She realizes that death would be
merciful and searches for the tablets.

ANALYSIS
Premise
The sins of the fathers are visited on the children.
Pivotal Character
Manders.
Characters
Mrs. Alving is a well-rounded character. We are able to
trace her life from the dutiful daughter she was to the fright-
ened young wife, who in spite of great misery, forsook free-
dom to follow her "duty." From then on her one purpose
in life was to save her husband's reputation for the sake of
her son. In the intervening years her mind developed so
PLAYS ANALYZED 287

alarmingly that she easily cast aside the flimsy fabric of her
earlier beliefs. She is a strong, determined woman.
Mr. Manders is revealed in his piousness and refusal to let
truth touch him. He has been guided by his conscience all
his life, but when his reputation is threatened, he, the torch-
bearer of truth, allows himself to be corrupted by necessity.
Oswald is intelligent, artistic, a believer in reality. He has
lived his life as he saw fit and judged it from what he had
seen, not from what he had heard.
Regina is a robust, coarse, shrewd girl.
Engstrand is a clever liar with innate shrewdness. He is
not malicious, however—in fact, he has a certain charm.
All characters are tridimensional.

Orchestration
They are well orchestrated: Mrs. Alving's clear mind
against Manders' blind piousness, Engstrand's wiliness in op-
position with Manders' great trust, Regina's independence
and shrewdness matched with Engstrand's shrewdness. Oswald
is intelligent and determined.

Unity of Opposites
Mrs. Alving and Mr. Manders are united to keep alive the
legend of Captain Alving's nobleness of character and at all
costs to prevent a marriage between Regina and Oswald, as
they are half sister and brother.

Point of Attack
The first act is a splendid example of exposition through
conflicts, rising in a steady crescendo.

Conflict
The conflicts are on a low plane at the beginning, but rise
in an ascending scale. The main issue is foreshadowed tern-
288 APPENDIX A

porarily in the scene between Manders and Engstrand, then

rises to a tense pitch at the end of Act Two. Act Three starts
on a low plane again, though still tense, and then rises with
full strength until the resolution.

Transition
There are superb transitions between the conflicts, from
the very beginning—at first leading up to Mrs. Alving's revela-
tion that her husband never mended his ways, and that Re-
gina is his illegitimate child, then in the scene between Man-
ders and Engstrand, and again Oswald's decision to marry
Regina. Finally Manders is persuaded to let Engstrand take
the blame for the orphanage fire; persuaded in a manner
which would ordinarily be revolting to his standards. Transi-
tion in Act Three rises steadily to the very climax.

Growth
Mrs. Alving perceives her folly in hiding her husband's true
nature all those years.
Mr. Manders grows from strict morality to saving his repu-
tation with a lie.
Oswald goes from normality to insanity.
Regina from a dutiful girl, who has regard for Mrs. Alving
and Oswald, to one who deserts them.
Engstrand succeeds in getting the money for his sailors'
home.
Crisis
Oswald's decision to marry Regina.

Climax
Oswald's mental breakdown.
Resolution
Mrs. Alving's search for the morphia tablets.
PLAYS ANALYZED 289

Dialogue
Good; all lines come from the personality of the characters.

3. Mourning Becomes Electra

Home-coming, The First Part of a Trilogy
by
Eugene O'Neill

SYNOPSIS
Through the conversation of a group of people who are
looking at the Mannon home in New England, we learn that
the Mannons are a wealthy family and that the father and son
of the family are away fighting in the Civil War while the
mother and daughter are at home. We learn that the towns-
folk dislike Christine, the mother, because of her foreign de-
scent. We hear about the family skeleton: the marriage of Ezra
Mannon's uncle David to a French-Canuck nurse girl he had
"gotten into trouble."
The action reveals that Lavinia, the daughter, hates her
mother as much as she loves her father and brother. She has
followed Christine on a trip into New York, and verified her
suspicion that Christine and Adam Brant are lovers. Brant
is a sea captain who has been coming to the house, ostensibly
to court Lavinia. Lavinia suspects further that Brant is the
son of the once-betrayed nurse girl. She tricks him into ad-
mitting this, and they quarrel. She then turns upon her
mother, telling her that unless she gives up Brant and be-
comes a dutiful wife to Ezra, Lavinia will let her father know
of the affair and have Brant blacklisted on all sailing vessels.
Christine consents, having revealed to Lavinia her loathing
of her husband.
290 APPENDIX A

Christine forces Brant into a plan for poisoning Ezra. He

is to buy the poison and she will administer it.
Ezra returns and is petted by his daughter. She does not
wish to leave her parents alone together, but is forced to. Ezra
tells Christine of his love for her, and of his desire to begin
a better life. She tries to keep him quiet by denying any cold-
ness on her part or obstacle between them.
Later that night they are talking in their room. Ezra is hurt
because Christine's attitude to him is dutiful but cold. She
is deliberately cruel, revealing her affair with Brant. Ezra has
a heart attack, and Christine forces the poison on him. He
calls Lavinia, who bursts into the room. Ezra says, "She's
guilty—not medicine!" before he dies in her arms.
Lavinia questions Christine, who collapses. The daughter
finds the pellets of poison on the floor, and her suspicions turn
into certainty. She cries to her dead father for guidance as the
curtain falls.

4. Dinner at Eight
A Drama in Three Acts
by
George S. Kaufman and Edna Ferber

SYNOPSIS
Millicent Jordan, a society woman, plans a dinner for Lord
and Lady Ferncliffe, social lions. She invites Dr. and Mrs. Tal-
bot, Dan and Kitty Packard, Carlotta Vance, and Larry
Renault. Her daughter, Paula, is not included.
The play deals with the individual tragedies of the guests,
the host, Paula, and the domestic staff of the Jordan home.
We discover that Oliver Jordan's business is shaky and that
Dan Packard, whom he hopes will help him, intends to cheat
PLAYS ANALYZED 291

him. We learn too that Oliver has a heart condition which

leaves him a short while to live.
Dan Packard, in his turn, is being betrayed by his cheap
little wife. He gives her luxuries, but neglects her, and she
busies herself with Dr. Talbot. In a quarrel, she lets Dan
know she is unfaithful, but does not disclose Talbot's name.
Dan cannot divorce her without her letting the world in on
his crooked deals. Kitty's maid, Tina, begins to blackmail
her in return for not revealing the lover's identity.
Dr. Talbot is tired of Kitty. He is a man who has had many
affairs, despite his love for his wife. Lucy Talbot is aware of
his infidelity, but still hopes for his regeneration.
Carlotta Vance, a once-famous actress, owns stock in Jor-
dan's company and promises not to sell it. She does, however,
to one of Packard's stooge representatives.
Larry Renault, invited as extra man for Carlotta, is a mo-
tion-picture actor on the road down. He and Paula Jordan
have been lovers, although neither her parents nor her fiance
are aware that they are even acquainted. His arrogance and
drunkenness lead him into a quarrel with his agent, Max
Kane, who has been trying to get him a stage role. Kane re-
veals what his pity has led him to hide all along: that Renault
is a has-been, a laughingstock to producers. Realizing that he
now has neither fame nor money, Larry commits suicide.
Ricci, the Jordan chauffeur, and Gustave, the butler, both
desire Dora, the maid. Dora prefers Gustave, but insists on
marriage. They are married the day before the dinner. When
Ricci learns of this he assaults Gustave, and the men fight.
Both are bruised. Then, on the afternoon of the party, Car-
lotta Vance mentions in the presence of both butler and maid
that she knows Gustave's wife and three children.
During the battle between the servants, the lobster aspic
has been spoiled. Millicent learns of this and of the fact that
both men have had "accidents" just before the dinner. The
Ferncliffes go off to Florida, leaving Millicent hysterical. At
292 APPENDIX A

this point Paula attempts to tell her mother of her love for
Renault (she does not know of his death), and Oliver tries to
beg off from the after-dinner party because he does not feel
well. Millicent turns on them in rage because they dare dis-
turb her with their petty problems when she has only eight
for dinner. She invites her sister and brother-in-law to fill in,
and, promptly at eight, the group adjourns for dinner.

5. Idiot's Delight
by
Robert Sherwood

SYNOPSIS
A group of people are in a hotel in what used to be the
Austrian Alps but is now part of Italy. There is threat of war
in the air, and Italian officers are constantly in evidence.
Those at the hotel include Dr. Waldersee, a German scien-
tist who is eager to get to Zurich where he can continue his
experiments to find a cure for cancer; Mr. and Mrs. Cherry,
English honeymooners; Quillery, a French radical-socialist;
Harry Van, a vaudevillian, and Les Blondes, his troupe of
six girls; Achille Weber, a munitions magnate; and his travel-
ing companion, Irene.
Harry Van is sure that Irene is a girl he once slept with in
Omaha. She denies it. Quillery rushes about shouting against
war as practiced by England, France, Italy—any country.
Then, when war between France and Italy is declared, Quil-
lery turns violently patriotic and anti-Italian. He is shot. The
passports arrive in the morning, and everyone but Irene is
able to leave. The Doctor is going back to Germany, bitter
about his own humanitarian work and the world. Mr. Cherry
is going back to enlist in the war. Weber is going to further
PLAYS ANALYZED 293

his militaristic moneymaking enterprises. But because Irene

has finally told him how much she despises his activities, he
has arranged for her to be left behind.
Irene admits to Harry that she is the girl he knew, and he
returns to the hotel when the others have gone. The whole
world has gone to war "against the little people," as Irene
says. She and Harry sing and play Onward, Christian Soldiers
while the battle rages above and around them.
 APPENDIX B

HOW TO MARKET YOUR PLAY

PLAYWRITING is not confined to a select group. Is there an

intelligent person who, sometime in his life, did not feel the
urge to write a poem, short story, novel or play? Playwriting
lures thousands yearly. A Broadway producer, in an article
offering advice to playwrights, once wrote:
Each year, thousands of tired businessmen and work-weary
housewives find sublimation for their restlessness and frustration
in playwriting. Next to watching professional baseball it's Amer-
ica's greatest pastime, indoors or out. And please don't get me
wrong. I have no intention of making any belittling remarks or
sounds of derision. It's a healthy sign, I think, and ever so often
it actually turns up someone who, by all the rules and regulations,
should know nothing at all about the snide intricacies of the
theater.
With the high cost of production today, it isn't easy to get
a play onto the stage—but there are certain preliminary steps
that you can take with little difficulty. Your play should be
presented in the proper physical form. This means no gaudy
cover, no illustrations of characters, costumes, or stage settings,
no lengthy description of characters. See that your play leaves
your hands in this condition, or have it groomed by a profes-
sional theatrical stenographer.
Use plain white regulation typewriter paper, faultless single-
space typing on one side of the page, and wide margins all
around. The play should run from about ninety to one hun-
dred twenty pages in length, and the whole thing should be
*94
HOW TO MARKET YOUR PLAY 295

bound simply and neatly by three removable fasteners in a dur-

able manuscript cover. The first page next to the cover is left
blank, the next page carries only the title and your name, and
perhaps at the lower right-hand corner the author's copyright.
The next page lists the characters in the order of their ap-
pearance. You list only the names of your characters, give no
lengthy descriptions as to marital status, in love with whom
at the present time, and the like. This extra writing is the
mark of the novice and creates a negative impression.
The synopsis of scenes follows, the play's division into acts
and scenes, and a brief statement of time and place of each
scene. Then one blank page (you might give the title again,
but that is all), and then Act I, Scene I. Make a brief word
picture of the setting, writing it on the right-hand half of the
page. Tell who is on stage at the rise of the curtain and begin
the dialogue. All speeches are written underneath the char-
acter's name, never beside it. Have as few stage instructions
as possible, and make them brief.
Now you are ready to send it out.
You should have an agent. Ninety-five per cent of the plays
produced have been sold, controlled and managed by agents.
They know the theater and who wants what. His fee is ten per
cent of the author's royalties.
The best way to get an agent is to apply to the Society of
Authors' Representatives, which will provide a list of ac-
credited agents and information as to which agents take what
kind of plays. Agents vary—some take unsolicited manu-
scripts and others do not. You should contact the agent before
sending him your script to find out whether he will accept
your manuscript. He may require you to sign a release form
when he agrees to read your play. A reading takes three weeks
to one month ordinarily. If the agent thinks your work has
a chance, you will be invited to sign a contract appointing
him as your exclusive representative for several years.
If your agent has taken your play and found a producer, you
296 APPENDIX B

should enroll in the Dramatists' Guild. This organization is

a division of the Authors' League of America and performs
a real service for the playwright. It assures the dramatist of
business advice and protection against "negligent" managers.
There are two kinds of membership: l) Associate, with dues
of $16 per year, available to anyone who has demonstrated to
the Guild's satisfaction that he is actually engaged in play-
writing; 2) Active, with dues of $20 per year, available to any-
one who has had a play produced on Broadway (not off-
Broadway). You must join the Guild in order to benefit
from the contract between producers and playwrights which
lays down regulations on advances, royalties, and other
basic requirements. Almost all New York producers are
signatories to this contract, which is revised and signed anew
periodically.
According to the Guild contract now in force, there are
two schedules which may be used for the paying of advances
and royalties. The author and producer agree on the one to
be used in each case. Under either alternative, the producer
has a period of one year from the completion of the play
to present it, or all rights will revert to the author.
Under the first alternative, $2,000 a year is the minimum
advance due an author when the producer leases the first-
class production rights in the play. It may be paid either as a
lump sum on signing of the contract or on a monthly basis;
the producer may drop his option at any time, either by
declaring his intention to do so or simply by not continuing
the monthly payments. After the Broadway opening, the
author's royalty under the contract is at least 5 per cent of
the first $5,000 of the gross weekly box-office receipts, >jy2
per cent of the next $2,000, and 10 per cent of the receipts
over $7,000.
Under the second alternative, the producer pays the au-
thor an advance of $2,400, either on the signing of the
contract or in equal monthly installments. In this instance,
APPENDIX B 297
the author's royalty is at least 5 per cent of the gross weekly
box-office receipts for a period to extend from the out-of-
town opening of the play for 17 weeks or until the produc-
tion cost of the play has been recouped by the producer,
whichever time is shorter. Thereafter, the author's royalty
reverts to the sliding scale explained in the paragraph above.
The contract provides that this second arrangement of 5
per cent can be made with the author only if comparable
arrangements are made with regard to certain other ele-
ments of the production.
Good luck to you.
 APPENDIX C
L O N G RUNS ON BROADWAY

PLAY NUMBER OF
PERFORMANCES
Life with Father 3224
Tobacco Road 3182
My Fair Lady 2717
Abie's Irish Rose 2327
Oklahoma! 2248
South Pacific 1925
Harvey 1775
Brn Yesterday 1642
The Voice of the Turtle 1557
Arsenic and Old Lace 1444
Hellzapoppin 1404
The Music Man 1376
Angel Street 1295
Lightnin' 1291
The King and I . 1246
The Sound of Music 1218 *
Guys and Dolls 1200
Mister Roberts 1157
Annie Get Your Gun 1147
The Seven Year Itch 1141
Pins and Needles 1108
Kiss me Kate 1070
Pajama Game . 1063
Teahouse of the August Moon 1027
Damn Yankees 1019
298
APPENDIX C 299
PLAY NUMBER OF
PERFORMANCES
West Side Story 983
Anna Lucasta 957
Kiss and Tell 957
Bells Are Ringing 924
The Moon Is Blue 924
Can-Can 892
Carousel 890
Hats Off to Ice 889
Fanny 888
Follow the Girb 882
The Bat 867
My Sister Eileen 865
White Cargo 864
Song of Norway 860
A Streetcar Named Desire 855
Comedy in Music 849
You Can't Take It with You 837
La Plume de Ma Tante 835
Three Men on a Horse 835
Camelot 832*
Inherit the Wind 806
No Time for Sergeants 796
Fiorello 796
Where's Charley? 792
The Ladder 789
State of the Union 765
The First Year 760
Two for the Seesaw 750
Death of a Salesman 742
Sons o' Fun 742
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes 740
The Man Who Came to Dinner 739
• Performances as of December 1, 1962.
300 APPENDIX C

PLAY NUMBER OF
PERFORMANCES
Call Me Mister 734
High Button Shoes 787
Finian's Rainbow 725
Mary, Mary 784*
Claudia 728
The Gold Diggers 720
The Miracle Worker 719
The Diary of A nne Frank 717
/ Remember Mama 714
Tea and Sympathy 71s
Junior Miss 710
Seventh Heaven 704
Gypsy 70a
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof 694
Li'l Abner 693
Peg o' My Heart 692
The Children's Hour 691
Dead End 687
The Lion and the Mouse 686
Dear Ruth 683
Carnival 683*
East is West 680
The Most Happy Fella 676
Come Blow Your Horn 676
The Doughgirls 671
Irene 670
Come blow your Horn 669
Blithe Spirit 657
The Women 657
A Trip to Chinatown 657
Bloomer Girl 654
The Fifth Season 654
* Performances as of December i, 196s.
APPENDIX C 301

PLAY NUMBER OF
PERFORMANCES
Rain 648
Witness for the Prosecution 645
Call Me Madam 644
Janie 642
The Green Pastures 64O
Auntie Mame 639
The Fourposter 632
The Tenth Man 623
Is Zat So? 6l8
Anniversary Waltz 615
The Happy Time 614
Separate Rooms 613
Affairs of State 6lO
Star and Garter 609
The Student Prince 608
Broadway 603
Adonis 603
Street Scene 6O1
Kiki 6OO
Flower Drum Song 6OO
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lajos Egri was born some sixty years ago in the

city of Eger, Hungary, and wrote his first three-act
play at the age of ten. For more than thirty-five
years he has written and directed plays in Europe
and the United States. He was director of the Egri
School of Writing in New York City for many
years. He now resides in Los Angeles, California,
where he is teaching and working with members
of the film industry.
 INDEX

Abe Lincoln in Illinois (Sherwood), Craftsmanship (Wilde), 236

249. 254 Craig's Wife (Kelly), 62, 90
Abie's Irish Rose (Nichols), 253
Adoratsky, 51 Darwin, Charles, 257
Aeschylus, 95 Dead End (Kingsley), 4, 22, 37-38, 62,
Agamemnon (Aeschylus), 95, 97 254
American Way, The (Kaufman and Death of a Salesman (Miller), 62
Hart), 449 Demerec, Milislaw, 129-130
Animal Biology (Woodruff), 48, 192 Design for Living (Coward), 143-146
Anti-Diihring (Engels), 92 Dialectics (Adoratsky), 51
Antigone (Sophocles), 239 Dialectics (Jackson), 212
Antony and Cleopatra (Shakespeare), Dialogues (Plato), 50
Diamond Necklace, The (de Maupas-
Archer, William, xv, 61, 87, 88, 93, sant), 27
237. 250 Dinner at Eight (Kaufman and Fer-
Aristotle, xiv, 86, 90, 92-93, 95, 96-97, ber), 116, 206-211, 290-292
190, 245, 249, 250 Doll's House, A (Ibsen), 15, 61, 66-70,
Awake and Sing (Odets), 239 94-95, 100-106, 108, 113-115, 119-
120, 122, 148-151, 152-161, 164, 166,
Baker, George Pierce, 2, 91, 92, 236 171-172, 175-177, 180, 187, 190, 200-
Balzac, Honord de, xii, 30, 31 201, 212, 217, 219-223, 224-325, 229,
Barry, Philip, 11 232, 235, 236, 237, 249
Bear, The (Chekhov), 61, 211-212, 244 Dumas, Alexandre, fits, 2, 93
Behrman, S. N., 249 Earth and High Heaven (Graham), 29
Bein, Albert, 254 Ellis, Havelock, 256, 258
Bel Geddes, Norman, 244 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 86, 100
Black Pit (Maltz), 82-83, 115, 214-217 Engels, Friedrich, 92
Brass Ankle (Heyward), 133-136, 146 Euripides, 36, 61, 95
Brunetiere, Ferdinand, a Excursion (Wolfson), 62
Bury the Dead (Shaw), 78-79, 108, 180,
184, 241
Family Portrait, 249
Faust (Goethe), 184
Career (Lee), 62 Ferber, Edna, 206, 290
Carlyle, Thomas, 256 Frederick the Great (Carlyle), 256
Carroll, Paul Vincent, 5, 254 Freud, Sigmund, 86, 180
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (Williams), Fulton, Robert, 87
4-5, 6s
Chekhov, Anton, 79, 91, 116, 211, 244 Galileo, 87
Cherry Orchard, The (Chekhov), 62, Galsworthy, John, 91
116, 201 Gauguin, Paul, 247
Children's Hour, The (Hellman), 13 General Types of Superior Men
Comedy of Errors, The (Shakespeare), (Schwarz), 256
24s George and Margaret (Savory), 182
Compton, Arthur H., 250 Ghosts (Ibsen), 4, 13, 152, 165-166,
Corneille, Pierre, xv 168-169, 177-178, 191, 194-200, 226-
Coward, Noel, 143, 145, 173, 249, 254 227, 237, 251-252, 284-289
303
304 INDEX

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 184, Let Freedom Ring (Bein), 254
257 Liliom (Molnar), 148, 184
Good Hope (Heijermans), 146 Lion Is in the Streets, A (Langley), 28
Graham, Gwethalynn, 29 Little Foxes, The (Hellman), 13, 249
Green, Paul, 241 Macbeth (Shakespeare), 3-4, 20, 35, 62,
Guardsman, The (Molnar), 184
109, 152, 184, 233
Madach, Imre, 184
Hamilton, Clayton, 263 Made for Each Other (Swerling), 59
Hamlet (Shakespeare), 35, 61, 62, 82, Maginn, 72
86, 94, 107, 108, 109, 113, 115, J52, Malevinsky, Moses L., 6, 7
164, 190 Maltz, Albert, 28, 115, 214, 217, 293
Hart, Moss, 249, 254 March's Thesaurus, 234
Hay Fever (Coward), 172-175 Marlowe, Christopher, 184
Hedda Gabler (Ibsen), 61, 152, 162- Matisse, Henri, 247
164, 183 Matthews, Brander, 2, 263
Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 51 Maupassant, Guy de, xii, 27
Heijermans, Hermann, 146 Medea (Euripides), 36, 61, 95, 96
Hellman, Lillian, 13-14, 249, 254 Merchant of Venice (Shakespeare), 61
Heyward, Du Bose, 133, 134, 146 Michael, Jeanne, 238
Hitler, Adolf, 47 Millikan, Robert, 250
Housman, Laurence, 254 Moliere (Jean Baptiste Poquelin), 15,
Howard, Sidney, 81 23, 25, 27, 61, 99, 166, 168, 249, 279
Hymn to the Rising Sun (Green), 241- Molnar, Ferenc, 148
242 Mourning Becomes Electra (O'Neill),
72-73- 77-78. 109. 152. 169-170. 289-
Ibsen, Henrik, xii, 4, 13, 15, 32-33, 290
61, 67, 68, 69, 100, 101, 104, 114, My Heart's in the Highlands (Sa-
162, 166, 176, 177, 187, 200, i l l , royan), 246-247
229, 235, 236, 249, 252, 284
Iceman Cometh, The (O'Neill), 62 New York Herald Tribune, 295
Idiot's Delight (Sherwood), 73, 120, New York Times, The, 13, 59, 83
139-143, 163-164, 186, 243, 252, 292- Night Music (Odets), 12
293 No Time for Comedy (Behrman), 249
Iron Men, 244 Notebooks (Leonardo), 193
Nugent, Frank S., 59
Jack the Ripper, 120-121
Jackson, T. A., 212 O'Casey, Sean, 5
Jesus Christ, 257 Odets, Clifford, 12, 181, 239, 244
Jonson, Ben, 91 Oedipus Rex (Sophocles), 95-96, 97-98,
Journey's End (Sherriff), 120 108, 164, 183
Joyce, James, 265 O. Henry, xii
Judrez, 109-111 Once in a Lifetime (Kaufman and
Juno and the Paycock (O'Casey), 5 Hart), 184
O'Neill, Eugene, 72, 76, 77-78, 169,
170, 211, 289
Kaufman, George S., 206, 249, 254, 290 Othello (Shakespeare), 4, 35, 61, 106,
Kids Learn Fast (Shifrin), 242 113, 152, 154, 186, 242
King Lear (Shakespeare), 3, 35, 74,
114, 116, 122 Paradise Lost (Odets), 244-245
Kingsley, Sidney, 4, 22, 23, 37, 254 Peters, 213
Philadelphia Story, The (Barry), 11-
Langley, Adria Locke, 28 12
Lawson, John Howard, 2, 89-90, 91, Picasso, Pablo, 247
232, 233-234 Plato, 50
Leeuwenhoek, Anton van, 87 Playmaking, a Manual of Craftsman-
Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim, xv, 91, ship (Archer), 87, 88, 93, 237
249 Poetics (Aristotle), 92-93
INDEX

Pride of the Marines (Maltz), 28-29 Stein, Gertrude, 73

Professor Mamlock, 75 Stevedore (Peters and Sklar), 213-214
Pygmalion (Shaw), 118 Study of British Genius, The (Ellis),
256
Raisin in the Sun, A (Hansberry), 62 Sweet Bird of Youth (Williams), 4-5
Raphaelson, Samson, 12 Swerling, Jo, 59
Riders to the Sea (Synge), 244 Synge, John Millington, 244
Rodin, Francois Auguste, 30-31
Romeo and Juliet (Shakespeare), 2-3, Tartuffe (Moliere), 23-27, 61, 62, 63-
11, 12, 15, 70-72, 94, 99, 109, 190, 64, 99, 106, 115, 164, 166-168, 201-
218-219 202, 279-284
Room Service (Boretz and Murray), Tesla, Nikola, 28
184 Theory and Technique of Playwrit-
Roughead, William, 13 ing, The (Lawson), 89, 90, 91
Theory of the Theatre, The (Hamil-
Sarilou, Victorien, 92 ton), 263
Saroyan, William, 12, 73, 246 They Shall Not Die (Wexley), 184
Savory, Gerald, 182 Thirty Seconds over Tokyo, 179
Schnitzler, Artur, 185 Time of Your Life, The (Saroyan), 12
Schwarz, Osias L., 256, 258 Tobacco Road (Kirkland), 80, 81-82,
Science of Logic (Hegel), 51 86, 107, 108, 253
Science of Playwrighting, The (Mai- Tragedy of Man, The (Madach), 184
evinsky), 6
Sea Gull, The (Chekhov), 201 Van Gelder, Robert, 13
Shadow and Substance (Carroll), 5-6, Vega, Lope de, xiv
*54 Victoria Regina (Housman), 254
Shakespeare, William, xii, 2-4, 11, 15, Vinci, Leonardo da, 193, 257
20, 35, 61, 186, 229, 242, 243, 245,
*49. *57 Waiting for Lefty (Odets), 62, 181
Shakespeare Papers (Maginn), 72 Watch on the Rhine (Hellman), 13-
Shaw, George Bernard, xii, 90, 118 »4. *54
Shaw, Irwin, 78 Webster's International Dictionary, 2,
Sherwood, Robert E., 73, 139, 140, 142, 88, 106, 234, 256, 257
143, 186, 243, 249, 254, 292 Wilde, Oscar, 59-60
Shifrin, 242 Wilde, Percival, xv, 236
Silver Cord, The (Howard), 62, 81, Williams, Tennessee, 4-5
113, 266 Woodruff, Lorande L., 48, 192
Sklar, George, 213
Skylark (Raphaelson), 12 Yellow Jack (Howard), 152
Socrates, 49, 50, 257 Vou Can't Take It with You (Kauf-
Sophocles, 95, 98, 239 man and Hart), 254
Soul of Man under Socialism, The
(Wilde), 59-60 Zeno, 51-52