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 Julia started life—that is to say, left school—as a genius. The
head mistress had had two or three years of such dull girls that
really she could not resist this excitement. Watercolour sketches
were the medium. So Julia was dressed in brown velveteen, and
sent to an art school, where they wouldn’t let her do
watercolour drawing at all. And in two years she learnt enough
about the trade of an artist not ever to want to do those
watercolour drawings again. Julia is now over thirty, and very
unhappy. Three of her watercolours (early masterpieces) hang
on the drawing-room wall. They shame her, but her mother
won’t have them taken down. On a holiday she’ll be off now and
then for a solid day’s sketching; and as she tears up the vain
attempt to put on paper the things she has learnt to see, she
sometimes cries. It was Julia, Emma, and Jane who, some years
ago, conspired to present their mother with that intensely
conspicuous cosy corner. A cosy corner is apparently a device for
making a corner just what the very nature of a corner should
forbid it to be. They beggared themselves; but one wishes that
Mr. Huxtable were more lavish with his dress allowances, then
they might at least have afforded something not quite so
hideous.

Such characterizing is an implied censure on the ability of most

readers to see the full significance of deft touches in the dialogue. If
not, then it is necessary because some part of it is not given in the
text as it should be, or it is wholly unnecessary and undesirable, for
the text, repeating all this detail, will be wearisome to an intelligent
reader. The safest principle is, in preparing a manuscript for acting,
to keep stage directions to matters of setting, lighting, essential
movements, and the intonations which cannot, by the utmost efforts
of the author, be conveyed by dialogue.39 In this last group belong
certain every-day phrases susceptible of so many shadings that the
actor needs guidance. In the last line of this extract from the
opening of Act III of Mrs. Dane’s Defence, the “tenderly” is
necessary.

Enter Wilson right, announcing Lady Eastney. Enter Lady

Eastney. Exit Wilson.

Lady Eastney. (Shaking hands.) You’re busy?

Sir Daniel. Yes, trying to persuade myself I am forty—solely on

your account.

Lady Eastney. That’s not necessary. I like you well enough as

you are.

Sir Daniel. (Tenderly.) Give me the best proof of that.

Notice that the statement just formulated as to stage directions

reads, “cannot be conveyed,” not “may not.” Cross the line, and
differences between the novel and the play are blurred, for the
author runs a fair chance of omitting exposition needed in the text
and of writing colorless dialogue. A recently published play prefaces
not only every speech, but even parts of the speeches with careful
statements as to how they should be given, even when the text is
perfectly clear. Nothing is left to the imagination, and the text is
often emotionally colorless.
 Let it be remembered, then, that the stage direction is not a
pocket into which a dramatist may stuff whatever explanation,
description, or analysis a novelist might allow himself, but is more a
last resort to which he turns when he cannot make his text convey
all that is necessary.

The passing of the soliloquy and the aside40 makes the dramatist
of today much more limited than were his predecessors in letting a
character describe itself. Today everything depends on the
naturalness of the self-exposition. The vainglorious, the self-
centered, the garrulous will always talk of themselves freely. The
reserved, the timid, and persons under suspicion will be sparing of
words. When the ingenuity of the dramatist cannot make self-
exposition plausible, the scene promptly becomes unreal. The point
to be remembered is, as George Meredith once said, that “The
verdict is with the observer.” Not what seems plausible to the author
but what, as he tries it on auditors, proves acceptable, may stand.

Description of one character by another is usually more plausible

than the method just treated. Even here, however, the test remains
plausibility. It requires persuasive acting to make the following
description of Tartuffe perfectly natural. There is danger that it will
appear more the detailed picture the dramatist wishes to place in
our minds than the description the speaker would naturally give his
listeners:

Orgon. Ah! If you’d seen him, as I saw him first,

You would have loved him just as much as I.
He came to church each day, with contrite mien,
Kneeled, on both knees, right opposite my place,
And drew the eyes of all the congregation,
 To watch the fervor of his prayers to heaven;
With deep-drawn sighs and great ejaculations.
He humbly kissed the earth at every moment;
And when I left the church, he ran before me
To give me holy water at the door.
I learned his poverty, and who he was,
By questioning his servant, who is like him,
And gave him gifts; but in his modesty
He always wanted to return a part.
“It is too much,” he’d say, “too much by half;
I am not worthy of your pity.” Then,
When I refused to take it back, he’d go,
Before my eyes, and give it to the poor.
At length Heaven bade me take him to my home,
And since that day, all seems to prosper here.
He censures nothing, and for my sake
He even takes great interest in my wife;
He lets me know who ogles her, and seems
Six times as jealous as I am myself.
You’d not believe how far his zeal can go:
He calls himself a sinner just for trifles;
The merest nothing is enough to shock him;
So much so, that the other day I heard him
Accuse himself for having, while at prayer,
In too much anger caught and killed a flea.41

The scene in which Melantius draws from his friend Amintor (The
Maid’s Tragedy, Act III, Scene 2) admission of his wrongs, shows
admirable use of both kinds of description—of oneself and of
another person.
 Melantius. You may shape, Amintor,
Causes to cozen the whole world withall,
And you yourselfe too; but tis not like a friend
To hide your soule from me. Tis not your nature
To be thus idle: I have seene you stand
As you were blasted midst of all your mirth;
Call thrice aloud, and then start, faining joy
So coldly!—World, what doe I here? a friend
Is nothing! Heaven, I would ha told that man
My secret sinnes! Ile search an unknowne land,
And there plant friendship; all is withered here.
Come with a complement! I would have fought,
Or told my friend a lie, ere soothed him so.
Out of my bosome!

Amintor. But there is nothing.

Mel. Worse and worse! farewell.

From this time have acquaintance, but no friend.

Amin. Melantius, stay; you shall know what that is.

Mel. See; how you plaid with friendship! be advis’d

How you give cause unto yourselfe to say
You ha lost a friend.

Amin. Forgive what I ha done;

For I am so oregone with injuries
Unheard of, that I lose consideration
Of what I ought to doe.—Oh!—Oh!

Mel. Doe not weepe.

What ist? May I once but know the man
Hath turn’d my friend thus!

Amin. I had spoke at first,

But that—

Mel. But what?

Amin. I held it most unfit

For you to know. Faith, doe not know it yet.

Mel. Thou seest my love, that will keepe company

With thee in teares; hide nothing, then, from me;
For when I know the cause of thy distemper,
With mine old armour Ile adorn myselfe,
My resolution, and cut through my foes,
Unto thy quiet, till I place thy heart
As peaceable as spotless innocence.
What is it?

Amin. Why, tis this—it is too bigge

To get out—let my teares make way awhile.

Mel. Punish me strangely, Heaven, if he escape

Of life or fame, that brought this youth to this.42
 The cry with which Electra turns to her peasant husband in the
play of Euripides is perhaps as fine an instance as there is of natural
description by one person of her relations to another.

Peasant. What wouldst thou now, my sad one, ever fraught

With toil to lighten my toil? And so soft
Thy nurture was! Have I not chid thee oft,
And thou wilt cease not, serving without end?

Electra. (Turning to him with impulsive affection.) O friend, my

friend, as God might be my friend,
Thou only hast not trampled on my tears.
Life scarce can be so hard, ’mid many fears
And many shames, when mortal heart can find
Somewhere one healing touch, as my sick mind
Finds thee.... And should I wait thy word, to endure
A little for thine easing, yea, or pour
My strength out in thy toiling fellowship?
Thou hast enough with fields and kine to keep;
’Tis mine to make all bright within the door.
’Tis joy to him that toils, when toil is o’er,
To find home waiting, full of happy things.

Peasant. If so it please thee, go thy way.43

Unquestionably, however, the best method of characterization is

by action. In the first draft of Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, Krogstad uses
with his employer Helmar, because he is an old school fellow, the
familiar “tu.” This under the circumstance illustrates his tactlessness
better than any amount of description. When Helmar is irritated by
this familiarity, his petty vanity is perfectly illustrated. Any one who
recalls the last scene of Louis XI as played by the late Sir Henry
Irving remembers vividly the restless, greedily moving fingers of the
praying King. They told far more than words. The way in which Mrs.
Lindon, throughout the opening scene of Clyde Fitch’s The Truth,44
touches any small article she finds in her way perfectly indicates her
fluttering nervousness.

At Mrs. Warder’s.... A smart, good-looking man-servant,

Jenks, shows in Mrs. Lindon and Laura Fraser. The former is a
handsome, nervous, overstrung woman of about thirty-four, very
fashionably dressed; Miss Fraser, on the contrary, a matter-of-
fact, rather commonplace type of good humor—wholesomeness
united to a kind of sense of humor....

Mrs. Lindon nervously picks up check-book from the writing-

table, looks at it but not in it, and puts it down....

She opens the cigar box on the writing-table behind her and
then bangs it shut....

She picks up stamp box and bangs it down.

Rises and goes to mantel, looking at the fly-leaves of two

books on a table which she passes.

Does not the action of this extract from Middleton’s A Chaste Maid
in Cheapside help most in depicting the greed and dishonesty of
Yellowhammer, as well as the humor and ingenuity of the suitor?
 Touchwood junior. (Aside.) ’Twere a good mirth now to set
him a-work
To make her wedding-ring; I must about it:
Rather than the gain should fall to a stranger,
’Twas honesty in me t’ enrich my father.

Yellowhammer. (Aside.) The girl is wondrous peevish. I fear

nothing
But that she’s taken with some other love,
Then all’s quite dashed: that must be narrowly looked to;
We cannot be too wary in our children.—
What is’t you lack?

Touch. jun. O, nothing now; all that I wish is present:

I’d have a wedding-ring made for a gentlewoman
With all speed that may be.

Yel. Of what weight, sir?

Touch. jun. Of some half ounce, stand fair

And comely with the spark of a diamond;
Sir, ’twere pity to lose the least grace.

Yel. Pray, let’s see it. (Takes stone from Touchwood junior.)
Indeed, sir ’tis a pure one.

Touch. jun. So is the mistress.

Yel. Have you the wideness of her finger, sir?

 Touch. jun. Yes, sure, I think I have her measure about me:
Good faith, ’tis down, I cannot show it to you;
I must pull too many things out to be certain.
Let me see—long and slender, and neatly jointed;
Just such another gentlewoman—that’s your daughter, sir?

Yel. And therefore, sir, no gentlewoman.

Touch. jun. I protest.

I ne’er saw two maids handed more alike;
I’ll ne’er seek farther, if you’ll give me leave, sir.

Yel. If you dare venture by her finger, sir.

Touch. jun. Ay, and I’ll bide all loss, sir.

Yel. Say you so, sir?

Let us see.—Hither, girl.

Touch. jun. Shall I make bold

With your finger, gentlewoman?

Moll. Your pleasure, sir.

Touch. jun. That fits her to a hair, sir.

(Trying ring on Moll’s finger.)

Yel. What’s your posy, now, sir?

Touch. jun. Mass, that’s true: posy? i’faith, e’en thus, sir:
 “Love that’s wise
Blinds parents’ eyes.”

Yel. How, how? if I may speak without offence, sir, I hold my

life—

Touch. jun. What, sir?

Yel. Go to,—you’ll pardon me?

Touch. jun. Pardon you? ay, sir.

Yel. Will you, i’ faith?

Touch. jun. Yes, faith, I will.

Yel. You’ll steal away some man’s daughter: am I near you?

Do you turn aside? you gentlemen are mad wags!
I wonder things can be so warily carried,
And parents blinded so: but they’re served right,
That have two eyes and were so dull a’ sight.

Touch. jun. (Aside.) Thy doom take hold of thee!

Yel. Tomorrow noon

Shall show your ring well done.

Touch. jun. Being so, ’tis soon.—

Thanks, and your leave, sweet gentlewoman.
 Moll. Sir, you’re welcome.—
(Exit Touchwood junior.)
O were I made of wishes, I went with thee!45

Could any description or analysis by the author or another

character paint as perfectly as does the action of the following lines
the wistful grief of the child pining for his mother?

Enter Giovanni, Count Lodovico.

Francisco. How now, my noble cossin! what, in blacke?

Giovanni. Yes, unckle, I was taught to imitate you

In vertue, and you must imitate mee
In coloures of your garments: my sweete mother
Is—

Fran. How? where?

Giov. Is there; no, yonder; indeed, sir, Ile not tell you,
For I shall make you weepe.

Fran. Is dead.

Giov. Do not blame me now,

I did not tell you so.

Lodovico. She’s dead, my lord.

 Fran. Dead!

Monticelso. Blessed lady; thou art now above thy woes!

Wilt please your lordships to withdraw a little?
(Exeunt Ambassadors.)

Giov. What do the deade do, uncle? do they eate,

Heare musicke, goe a hunting, and bee merrie,
As wee that live?

Fran. No, cose; they sleepe.

Giov. Lord, Lord, that I were dead!

I have not slept these sixe nights. When doe they wake?

Fran. When God shall please.

Giov. Good God let her sleepe ever!

For I have knowne her wake an hundredth nights,
When all the pillow, where she laid her head,
Was brine-wet with her teares. I am to complaine to you, sir.
Ile tell you how they have used her now shees dead:
They wrapt her in a cruell fould of lead,
And would not let me kisse her.

Fran. Thou didst love her.

Giov. I have often heard her say she gave mee sucke,
And it would seeme by that shee deerely lov’d mee
Since princes seldome doe it.
 Fran. O, all of my poore sister that remaines!
Take him away, for Gods sake!
(Exeunt Giovanni, Lodovico, and
Marcello.)46

In brief, then, understand your characters thoroughly, but do not,

in your own personality, describe them anywhere. Let them describe
themselves, or let other people on the stage describe or analyze
them, when this is naturally convincing or may be made plausible by
your skill. Trust, however, above all, to letting your characters live
before your audience the emotions which interest you, thus making
them convey their characters by the best means of communication
between actor and audience—namely, action.

In the chapter (VI) dealing with clearness in exposition the

extreme importance of identifying the characters for the audience
has been carefully treated.47 Closely connected with this identifying
is the matter of entrances and exits.

The characterizing value of exits and entrances is usually little

understood by the inexperienced dramatist. Yet in real life, men and
women cannot enter or leave a room without characterization.
Watch the people in a railroad car as it nears the terminus. The
people who rise and stand in the aisles are clearly of different
natures from those who remain quietly seated till the train reaches
its destination. The twenty or thirty standing wait differently and
leave the car with different degrees of haste, nervousness or
anticipation. Those who remain seated differ also. Some are
absorbed in conversation, oblivious of the approaching station;
others, somewhat ostentatiously, watch the waiters in the aisles with
amused contempt. Study, therefore, exits and entrances. Very few
will be found negative in the sense that they add nothing to the
knowledge of the characters. How did Claude enter in the following
extract from a recent play? Claude, it should be said, has been
mentioned just in passing, as a suitor of Marna. Other matters,
however, have been occupying attention.

Enter Claude

Claude. (Sitting beside her on the settle.) I thought I should

not see you tonight.

Marna. I wondered if you would come.

Claude must really have entered in character—quickly,

impetuously, or ardently. He may have paused an instant on the
threshold; he may have dashed in, leaving the door ajar; he may
have closed it cautiously; he may have come in through the window.
And how did they get to the settle? The author may know all this,
but he certainly does not tell. He should visualize his figures as he
writes, seeing them from moment to moment as they move, sit, or
stand. Otherwise, he will miss much that is significant and
characterizing in their actions.

In a play that was largely a study of a self-indulgent, self-centred

youth, to the annoyance of all he is late at the family celebration of
his cousin’s birthday. Sauntering in, he meets a disappointing
silence. Looking about, he says, “Nobody has missed me.” And then,
as all wait for his excuses, he shifts the burden of speech to his
mother with the words, “Hasn’t her ladyship anything to say?” Surely
this entrance characterizes.
 Illusion disappears, also, when people needed on the stage, from
taxi-cab drivers to ambassadors, are apparently waiting just outside
the door. A play of very interesting subject-matter became almost
ridiculous because whenever anybody was needed, he or she was
apparently waiting just outside one of the doors. As some of these
were persons involved in affairs of state and others supposedly lived
at a distance, their prompt appearance partook of wizardry. People
should not only come on in character, but after time enough has
been allowed or suggested to permit them to come from the places
where they are supposed to have been.

How much the entrance of a character should be prepared for

must be left to the judgment of the dramatist. Whatever is needed
to make the entrance produce the effect desired must be planted in
the minds of the audience before the character appears. Phormio, in
Terence’s play of that name, does not appear before the second act.
His entrance is undoubtedly held back both to whet curiosity to the
utmost before he appears, and in order to set forth clearly the tangle
of events which his ingenuity must overcome. Magda, in
Sudermann’s Heimat, also appears first in the second act. This is not
done because some leading lady wished to make as triumphant an
entrance as possible, an inartistic but time-honored reason in some
plays, but because, till we have lived with Magda’s family in the
home from which she was driven by her father’s narrowness and
inflexibility, we cannot grasp the full significance of her character in
this environment when she returns. Usually, of course, a character of
importance does appear in the first act, but naturalness first and
theatrical effectiveness second determine the point at which it is
proper that a character should appear. The supposed need in the
audience for detailed information, slight information, or no
information as to a figure about to enter must decide the amount of
preliminary statement in regard to him. If possible, a character
enters, identifies himself, and places himself with regard to the other
persons involved in the action as nearly as possible at one and the
same time. The more important the character, the more involved the
circumstances which we must understand before he can enter
properly, the greater the amount of preliminary preparation for him.
In Phormio48 and Heimat (or Magda) this preparation fills an act; in
Tartuffe it fills two acts. More often bits here and there prepare the
way, or some one passage of dialogue, as in the introduction of Sir
Amorous La-Foole in Ben Jonson’s Epicœne.49

Dauphine. We are invited to dinner together, he and I, by one

that came thither to him, Sir La-Foole.

Clerimont. I, that’s a precious mannikin!

Daup. Do you know him?

Cler. Ay, and he will know you too, if e’er he saw you but
once, though you should meet him at church in the midst of
prayers. He is one of the braveries, though he be none of the
wits. He will salute a judge upon the bench, and a bishop in the
pulpit, a lawyer when he is pleading at the bar, and a lady when
she is dancing in a masque, and put her out. He does give plays
and suppers, and invite his guests to them, aloud, out of his
window, as they ride by in coaches. He has a lodging in the
Strand for the purpose: or to watch when ladies are gone to the
china-houses, or the Exchange, that he may meet them by
chance, and give them presents, some two or three hundred
pounds’ worth of toys, to be laughed at. He is never without a
 spare banquet, or sweetmeats in his chamber for their women
to alight at, and come up to for bait.

Daup. Excellent! he was a fine youth last night; but now he is

much finer! what is his Christian name? I have forgot.

Re-enter Page

Cler. Sir Amorous La-Foole.

Page. The gentleman is here below that owns that name.

Cler. ’Heart, he’s come to invite me to dinner, I hold my life.

Daup. Like enough: prithee, let’s have him up.

Cler. Boy, marshall him.

In Scene 1, Act I, of Becket, as written by Lord Tennyson, we

have:

Enter Rosamund de Clifford, flying from Sir Reginald Fitz Urse,

drops her veil

Becket. Rosamund de Clifford!

Rosamund. Save me, father, hide me—they follow me—and I

must not be known.

Sir Henry Irving arranged this for the stage as follows:

 Enter Rosamund de Clifford. Drops her veil

Rosamund. Save me, father, hide me.

Becket. Rosamund de Clifford!

Rosamund. They follow me—and I must not be known.

There are real values in these seemingly slight changes. With a

rush and in confusion, Rosamund enters. As it is her first appearance
in the play, it is of the highest importance that she be identified for
the audience. If Becket gives her name as she enters, it may be lost
in her onward rush. If entering, she speaks the line, “Save me,
father, hide me,” she centers attention on him and he may fully
emphasize the identification in, “Rosamund de Clifford!” Note as
bearing on what has already been said in regard to unnecessary use
of stage direction that Irving cut out “flying from Sir Reginald Fitz
Urse.” He knew that Rosamund’s speeches and her action would
make the fleeing clear enough, and that the scene immediately
following with Fitz Urse would show who was pursuing her.
Entrances, when well handled, therefore, must be in character,
prepared for, and properly motivated.

Exits are just as important as entrances. The exit of Captain Nat in

Shore Acres has already been mentioned under pantomime. Mark
the significance of the exit of Hamlet in the ghost scene, as he goes
with sword held out before him. The final exit of Iris in Pinero’s play
is symbolic of her passing into the outer and under world.
 Maldonado. You can send for your trinkets and clothes in the
morning. After that, let me hear no more of you. (She remains
motionless, as if stricken.) I’ve nothing further to say.

(A slight shiver runs through her frame and she resumes

her walk. At the door, she feels blindly for the handle;
finding it, she opens the door narrowly and passes
out.)

The absurdities in which the ill-managed exit or entrance may land

us, Lessing shows amusingly:

Maffei often does not motivate the exits and entrances of his
personages: Voltaire often motivates them falsely, which is far
worse. It is not enough that a person says why he comes on, we
ought also to perceive by the connection that he must therefore
come. It is not enough that he say why he goes off, we ought to
see subsequently that he went on that account. Else, that which
the poet places in his mouth is mere excuse and no cause.
When, for example, Eurykles goes off in the third scene of the
second act, in order, as he says, to assemble the friends of the
queen, we ought to hear afterwards about these friends and
their assemblage. As, however, we hear nothing of the kind, his
assertion is a schoolboy “Peto veniam exeundi,” the first
falsehood that occurs to the boy. He does not go off in order to
do what he says; but in order to return a few lines on as the
bearer of news which the poet did not know how to impart by
means of any other person. Voltaire treats the ends of acts yet