think it was equivalent to the foolish, and simply laughed. Tchekhof's delicate art, merely because it expressed itself in unfamiliar fashion, made no appeal. And this at once suggests another way in which dramatic technique may be enlarged or modified. Among dramatic conventions there are some which are necessitated by the conditions of the dramatic art. There are others which merely reflect the prejudices of particular audiences and particular countries. But how are we to distinguish between the two? The larger our knowledge, the wider our experience, the less is the value attached to local and national prejudice, and the more accurately shall we be able to free the essential conditions from those which are purely arbitrary and unessential.

To come back to smaller points, of more concrete significance. The dramatist has to bear in mind that on the whole he will find his effect the greater if he represents on the stage certain events or actions, and does not narrate them through the mouth of an eye-witness or a messenger. In the modern world, ever since the time of Francisque Sarcey, we have heard of the necessity of scènes à faire; that is to say, scenes which bring vividly before the audience the very points to which the drama leads, or else noticeable features about the intrigue which it is of importance that the audience should have before their mind. Remember, however, that in ancient drama there was not nearly the same dislike of narration. In nearly all the Greek plays you find messengers coming in to tell the audience what has occurred; and many of these narratives of messengers are full of drama-the drama, that is to say, of narration and exposition, though not of actual incident. With us, on the whole, the practice is different. We adopt Horace's principle, that things which are given to our ears are not so impressive as things which are submitted to our eyes.

'Segnius irritant animos demissa per aures

Quam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus.'

Hence the whole value of the scène à faire-to make the audience conversant with all that it is important for them to know. Take, for instance, what is just as useful for our purpose, a negative example-the first change in the relations between Hamlet and Ophelia, marking the

strange difference between Hamlet as the lover and Hamlet as the man obsessed with the idea that he has to avenge his father's murder. Singularly enough, Shakespeare, who thoroughly understood the necessity of scènes à faire, for once does not give us an earlier and very critical scene, but allows Ophelia to tell us. Ophelia describes how Hamlet suddenly burst into her presence, disordered alike in dress and in manner, with wild and whirling words. If there had been time, or if it had so pleased the dramatist, the earlier scene between the pair might have told us a great deal, perhaps even explained the whole mystery of the relations between Hamlet and Ophelia, and answered the question whether he really was ever in love with her or no. Shakespeare preferred to leave this point a little doubtful; but the illustration will show the value of some actual scene which the spectator could witness, as compared with incidents which are merely described by word of mouth.

Another principle, again, we can take from Horace, which also illustrates a divergence between modern and ancient practice on the stage. According to the old practice, terrible scenes, scenes of murder, are not exhibited. They take place behind the scenes. As Horace puts it, you must not let Medea kill her children before the audience. When Clytemnestra, with the aid of her paramour Ægisthus, kills her lord, Agamemnon, on his return from Troy, we hear the cries, we listen to the confused utterances of the Chorus; but the murder in the bath we do not see. The modern dramatist does not spare us in this respect, as a rule; and melodrama is especially prolific of violent incidents, calculated to shock and alarm the audience. But in this matter probably the wiser dramatist will exercise a certain reserve, and if he does, he will emphasise the awful mystery of his action. To watch a door, and to know that behind it some horrible scene is being enacted, is a device which Eschylus adopted in his 'Agamemnon,' but it is also a device which Shakespeare adopted in his play of 'Macbeth.' When Macbeth has gone up the staircase, and entered the room where the blameless King is sleeping, the strain on the nerves of the spectators, and also on those of Lady Macbeth, is all the greater because the action appeals vividly not to the eyesight, but to the

imagination. We watch the door with a sick suspense. Take another instance, in a very modern play, a story written by Mr W. W. Jacobs, entitled 'The Monkey's Paw.' The monkey's paw gives three wishes to the man who holds it in his hand. The first wish, which is for money, is speedily realised. Then comes a second and more terrible wish. The father and mother desire to see their dead son, and for an agonised moment we watch the door by which the son is going to enter. The tragic value of the situation entirely depends on that shut door, with its possibilities of opening. So tense and dreadful is the moment that even the father and mother, horrified by what they are doing, use the last wish accorded to them in a desire that their dead son should remain in his tomb. When the door is opened there is nothing. In Ibsen's The Master Builder,' again, we see the whole of the terrible last scene, where Solness climbs and falls, not in actual presentment, but through the eyes of Hilda and Ragnar and Mrs Solness. These are some of the gruesome effects which the dramatist can render for us, not by showing, but by concealing; not by submitting to our eyesight, but by appealing to our imagination.

There is yet another principle, which can be laid down in the following sentence. Do not conceal from your audience the secret mechanism of your intrigue. Leave the actors in the drama entirely ignorant, but let the audience into the secret, in order that they may enjoy to the full the irony of a situation which they appreciate. Numerous illustrations occur to one. For instance, a very foolish criticism was once passed on the conduct of the great scene in which Sheridan, in 'The School for Scandal,' puts the misguided but not sinful Lady Teazle behind a screen in Joseph Surface's room. The critic in question, Mrs Oliphant, said that it would be far cleverer if the audience did not know who was behind the screen. Now that is a singularly inept remark. The whole value of the scene, as any actor would tell you, is that while the audience know who is behind the screen, Sir Peter and Charles Surface are ignorant, and therefore blindly drive matters to a crisis. The audience enjoy their superior knowledge, and take all the more interest in the rash impetuosity of the actors. Or again, when first Oscar Wilde's 'Lady Windermere's Fan' was acted in London

at the St James's Theatre, no indication was conveyed to the audience as to who the mysterious Mrs Erlynne was. The first representation entirely baffled the theatre, for the spectators did not know what to make of the situation. After the first night's experience a sentence was given to the hero at the end of the first act, which reveals the fact that Mrs Erlynne is Lady Windermere's mother. Instead of lessening the interest in what followed, it heightened it. For once more the audience could enjoy their own superior knowledge, and see what a fool Lady Windermere was making of herself. Sometimes, of course, a great dramatist will ignore this salutary rule or principle, and if he is big enough he will probably succeed. In M. Paul Hervieu's L'Enigme,' the question turns on which of two women is guilty of an intrigue, and only at the end is the audience let into the secret. In this case it must be remembered that the play is a short one, which, no doubt, makes some difference; and most theatrical managers, in casting the play, would be careful so to choose the two actresses as to indicate, at all events, to the house which is likely to be the guilty woman. Certainly that was the case in the English version, which was done under the name of 'Cæsar's Wife.'

Sophocles' Edipus' is often put forward as the most perfect type of Greek tragedy. If we look at the framework of that famous play, we shall discover that, after the opening scene, it consists of a series of zigzags, or perhaps we should rather call them crises, succeeded in most cases by a certain relaxation of tension. There is first what is technically called 'exposition.' The city of Thebes is under a curse. Why? Because it is polluted by a murder-the murder of King Laïus-and the murderer has not been detected. The business, then, of King Edipus is to discover who is the guilty man, and to take steps for his proper punishment. Then comes the first crisis. In circumstances like these it is natural to consult the prophet, the professional wizard; and Teiresias, when summoned, proclaims roundly that the murderer is Edipus himself. So monstrous a proposition naturally leads to a reaction, and we get the relaxation of the tension by the indignant repudiation of Edipus, and the suggestion that he is the victim

of a plot, engineered by Creon, to remove him from the throne. This movement away from the main line of the story is also helped by Queen Jocasta, who is shown as somewhat sceptical of the value of prophets and prophecies. That is the first wave, which has spent its force, and is immediately succeeded by a second. The second crisis is furnished by Edipus' own memories. He recalls ancient things, how he met an old man in a chariot, in a place where three roads met, and how he killed him. Another memory haunts the mind of the King, for it has been told him that he must murder his father and marry his mother, and that is the precise reason why he has left Corinth, where his supposed father, Polybus, and his supposed mother, Merope, live. Now succeeds the relaxation of the tension. Jocasta tells him that the babe of Laïus was exposed on Mount Citharon, and died long ago; and there comes a messenger from Corinth, bringing welcome news to Edipus that King Polybus, his supposed father, is dead. The second wave, therefore, has spent its force. But immediately we are threatened with a third and more tremendous wave. The Corinthian messenger reveals the fact that Edipus was no son of Polybus, but had been brought to Corinth by himself, a shepherd, having been taken from the hands of a Theban shepherd. From this point the third crisis grows more and more intense, until the arrival of the Theban shepherd, with the full explanation of all that had happened to the son of Laïus, convicts Edipus of being the guilty man who has caused the ruin of his State. There is no relaxation of the tension now. Jocasta the Queen hangs herself. Edipus puts out his eyes with one of Jocasta's ornaments. The tragedy is complete. Every effort that the hero had made to resolve the mystery hanging over Thebes had only more fatally and remorselessly brought the horrible secret home to his own breast.

It is plain, even from this very brief analysis, how deftly the dramatist has constructed his play, with what a patient hand he has inwoven all the elements of his tragedy before he unweaves it in the presence of his audience. The two questions of foreshortening and concentration, so necessary in the dramatist's art, must not be forgotten. There is such a thing as dramatic