The Story Of A Play – William Dean Howells
‘The Story of a Play’ is a pleasing addition to the list of the charming trivialities to which Mr. Howells has chiefly devoted himself in the late years of the 19th century. It now seems a confirmed habit with him to select for treatment some closely circumscribed phase of experience, to make it the subject of the most searching and minute observation, and to develop its utmost possibilities. This intensive method of literary cultivation is the method best calculated to yield artistic results ; and, if this work of Mr. Howells does sometimes suggest the carving of cherry-stones, the carving is very neatly done. Few subjects are more hackneyed than that of the budding man of letters seeking to make his way in an unappreciative world, and it requires some daring to bring it once more into service. In the present case, the aspirant for fame pins his fortunes to play- writing, which gives the author an opportunity to introduce the chief types of player-folk into his pages, and to illuminate their ways with many a flash of gentle humor. By making the wife of the hero collaborate in the work of writing the play, Mr. Howells is enabled to add to his collection another of those examples of femininity that usually prove so exasperating to the sex that they assume to represent. It is all very well by way of semi satirical pastime, but women are sometimes rational beings, the score or more of Mr. Howells’s novels to the contrary notwithstanding.
The Story Of A Play.
Excerpt from the text:
The young actor who thought he saw his part in Maxwell’s play had so far made his way upward on the Pacific Coast that he felt justified in taking the road with a combination of his own. He met the author at a dinner of the Papyrus Club in Boston, where they were introduced with a facile flourish of praise from the journalist who brought them together, as the very men who were looking for each other, and who ought to be able to give the American public a real American drama. The actor, who believed he had an ideal of this drama, professed an immediate interest in the kind of thing Maxwell told him he was trying to do, and asked him to come the next day, if he did not mind its being Sunday, and talk the play over with him.
He was at breakfast when Maxwell came, at about the hour people were getting home from church, and he asked the author to join him. But Maxwell had already breakfasted, and he hid his impatience of the actor’s politeness as well as he could, and began at the first moment possible: “The idea of my play is biblical; we’re still a very biblical people.” He had thought of the fact in seeing so many worshippers swarming out of the churches.
“That is true,” said the actor.
“It’s the old idea of the wages of sin. I should like to call it that.”
“The name has been used, hasn’t it?”
“I shouldn’t mind; for I want to get a new effect from the old notion, and it would be all the stronger from familiar association with the name. I want to show that the wages of sin is more sinning, which is the very body of death.”
“Well, I take a successful man at the acme of his success, and study him in a succession of scenes that bring out the fact of his prosperity in a way to strike the imagination of the audience, even the groundlings; and, of course, I have to deal with success of the most appreciable sort—a material success that is gross and palpable. I have to use a large canvas, as big as Shakespeare’s, in fact, and I put in a great many figures.”
“That’s right,” said the actor. “You want to keep the stage full, with people coming and going.”
“There’s a lot of coming and going, and a lot of incidents, to keep the spectator interested, and on the lookout for what’s to happen next. The whole of the first act is working up to something that I’ve wanted to see put on the stage for a good while, or ever since I’ve thought of writing for the stage, and that is a large dinner, one of the public kind.”
“Capital!” said the actor.
“I’ve seen a good deal of that sort of thing as a reporter; you know they put us at a table off to one side, and we see the whole thing, a great deal better than the diners themselves do. It’s a banquet, given by a certain number of my man’s friends, in honor of his fiftieth birthday, and you see the men gathering in the hotel parlor—well, you can imagine it in almost any hotel—and Haxard is in the foreground. Haxard is the hero’s name, you know.”
“It’s a good name,” the actor mused aloud. “It has a strong sound.”
“Do you like it? Well, Haxard,” Maxwell continued, “is there in the foreground, from the first moment the curtain rises, receiving his friends, and shaking hands right and left, and joking and laughing with everybody—a very small joke makes a very large laugh on occasions like that, and I shall try to give some notion of the comparative size of the joke and the laugh—and receiving congratulations, that give a notion of what the dinner is for, and the kind of man he is, and how universally respected and all that, till everybody has come; and then the doors between the parlor and the dining-room are rolled back, and every man goes out with his own wife, or his sister, or his cousin, or his aunt, if he hasn’t got a wife; I saw them do that once, at a big commercial dinner I reported.”
“Ah, I was afraid it was to be exclusively a man’s dinner!” the actor interrupted.
“Oh, no,” Maxwell answered, with a shade of vexation. “That wouldn’t do. You couldn’t have a scene, or, at least, not a whole act, without women. Of course I understand that. Even if you could keep the attention of the audience without them, through the importance of the intrigue, still you would have to have them for the sake of the stage-picture. The drama is literature that makes a double appeal; it appeals to the sense as well as the intellect, and the stage is half the time merely a picture-frame. I had to think that out pretty early.”
The actor nodded. “You couldn’t too soon.”
“It wouldn’t do to have nothing but a crowd of black coats and white shirt-fronts on the stage through a whole act. You want color, and a lot of it, and you can only get it, in our day, with the women’s costumes. Besides, they give movement and life. After the dinner begins they’re supposed to sparkle all through. I’ve imagined the table set down the depth of the stage, with Haxard and the nominal host at the head, fronting the audience, and the people talking back and forth on each side, and I let the ladies do most of the talking, of course. I mean to have the dinner served through all the courses, and the waiters coming and going; the events will have to be hurried, and the eating merely sketched, at times; but I should keep the thing in pretty perfect form, till it came to the speaking. I shall have to cut that a good deal, but I think I can give a pretty fair notion of how they butter the object of their hospitality on such occasions; I’ve seen it and heard it done often enough. I think, perhaps, I shall have the dinner an act by itself. There are only four acts in the play now, and I’ll have to make five. I want to give Haxard’s speech as fully as possible, for that’s what I study the man in, and make my confidences to the audience about him. I shall make him butter himself, but all with the utmost humility, and brag of everything that he disclaims the merit of.”
The actor rose and reached across the table for the sugar. “That’s a capital notion. That’s new. That would make a hit—the speech would.”
“Do you think so?” returned the author. “I thought so. I believe that in the hands of a good actor the speech could be made tremendously telling. I wouldn’t have a word to give away his character, his nature, except the words of his own mouth, but I would have them do it so effectually that when he gets through the audience will be fairly ‘onto him,’ don’t you know.”
“Magnificent!” said the actor, pouring himself some more cocoa.
Maxwell continued: “In the third act—for I see that I shall have to make it the third now—the scene will be in Haxard’s library, after he gets home from the complimentary dinner, at midnight, and he finds a man waiting for him there—a man that the butler tells him has called several times, and was so anxious to see him that Mrs. Haxard has given orders to let him wait. Oh, I ought to go back a little, and explain—”
“Yes, do!” The actor stirred his cocoa with mounting interest. “Yes, don’t leave anything out.”
“I merely meant to say that in the talk in the scene, or the act, before the dinner—I shall have two acts, but with no wait between them; just let down the curtain and raise it again—it will come out that Haxard is not a Bostonian by birth, but has come here since the war from the Southwest, where he went, from Maine, to grow up with the country, and is understood to have been a sort of quiescent Union man there; it’s thought to be rather a fine thing the way he’s taken on Boston, and shown so much local patriotism and public spirit and philanthropy, in the way he’s brought himself forward here. People don’t know a great deal about his past, but it’s understood to have been very creditable. I shall have to recast that part a little, and lengthen the delay before he comes on, and let the guests, or the hosts—for they’re giving him the dinner—have time to talk about him, and free their minds in honor of him behind his back, before they begin to his face.”
“Never bring your principal character on at once,” the actor interjected.
“No,” Maxwell consented. “I see that wouldn’t have done.” He went on: “Well, as soon as Haxard turns up the light in his library, the man rises from the lounge where he has been sitting, and Haxard sees who it is. He sees that it is a man whom he used to be in partnership with in Texas, where they were engaged in some very shady transactions. They get caught in one of them—I haven’t decided yet just what sort of transaction it was, and I shall have to look that point up; I’ll get some law-student to help me—and Haxard, who wasn’t Haxard then, pulls out and leaves his partner to suffer the penalty. Haxard comes North, and after trying it in various places, he settles here, and marries, and starts in business and prospers on, while the other fellow takes their joint punishment in the penitentiary. By the way, it just occurs to me! I think I’ll have it that Haxard has killed a man, a man whom he has injured; he doesn’t mean to kill him, but he has to; and this fellow is knowing to the homicide, but has been prevented from getting onto Haxard’s trail by the consequences of his own misdemeanors; that will probably be the best way out. Of course it all has to transpire, all these facts, in the course of the dialogue which the two men have with each other in Haxard’s library, after a good deal of fighting away from the inevitable identification on Haxard’s part. After the first few preliminary words with the butler at the door before he goes in to find the other man—his name is Greenshaw—”
“That’s a good name, too,” said the actor.
“Yes, isn’t it? It has a sort of probable sound, and yet it’s a made-up name. Well, I was going to say—”
“And I’m glad you have it a homicide that Haxard is guilty of, instead of a business crime of some sort. That sort of crime never tells with an audience,” the actor observed.
“No,” said Maxwell. “Homicide is decidedly better. It’s more melodramatic, and I don’t like that, but it will be more appreciable, as a real sin, to most of the audience; we steal and cheat so much, and we kill comparatively so little in the North. Well, I was going to say that I shall have this whole act to consist entirely of the passage between the two men. I shall let it begin with a kind of shiver creeping over the spectator, when he recognizes the relation between them, and I hope I shall be able to make it end with a shudder, for Haxard must see from the first moment, and he must let the audience see at last, that the only way for him to save himself from his old crime is to commit a new one. He must kill the man who saw him kill a man.”
“That’s good,” the actor thoughtfully murmured, as if tasting a pleasant morsel to try its flavor. “Excellent.”
Maxwell laughed for pleasure, and went on: “He arranges to meet the man again at a certain time and place, and that is the last of Greenshaw. He leaves the house alone; and the body of an unknown man is found floating up and down with the tide under the Long Bridge. There are no marks of violence; he must have fallen off the bridge in the dark, and been drowned; it could very easily happen. Well, then comes the most difficult part of the whole thing; I have got to connect the casualty with Haxard in the most unmistakable way, unmistakable to the audience, that is; and I have got to have it brought home to him in a supreme moment of his life. I don’t want to have him feel remorse for it; that isn’t the modern theory of the criminal; but I do want him to be anxious to hide his connection with it, and to escape the consequences. I don’t know but I shall try another dinner-scene, though I am afraid it would be a risk.”
The actor said, “I don’t know. It might be the very thing. The audience likes a recurrence to a distinctive feature. It’s like going back to an effective strain in music.”