Chapters from a Playwright's Diary

Random Reflections on the Art and Business of the Theatre in a Particularly Unserious Vein

FERENC MOLNÁR

§1

AN Honest Confession Concerning Dramaturgy:—If ever I wrote a voluminous dramaturgical essay, I should base my argument on the contention that to spend an evening in the theatre is a punishment. Picture yourself in the period when the Inquisition tortured its victims not only with red-hot irons and thumbscrews, but also with other, more nimble-witted torments, such as the slow, very slow dripping of water into the open mouths of poor wretches. Now abandon all your familiar and everyday notions as 'regards the conception of "the theatre" and suppose that an inquisitor whose ambition it was to invent new instruments of torments had hit upon the following:

"The guilty party shall be compelled, once every week, at an appointed hour, suddenly to drop anything he may be doing at the moment and—he the weather good or bad— to hurry to a certain great hall. The great hall shall be darkened immediately after the guilty party has been taken to his tight and uncomfortable seat. There he shall sit in the dark, stiffly, rigidly, immovable, for three hours. During this time he shall be forbidden (i) to go out, (2) to rise, (3) to move, (4) to turn 'round, (5) to speak, (6) to blow his nose, (7) to cough, (8) to sneeze, (9) to eat, (10) to drink, (11) to smoke, (12) to laugh by himself, (i3) to sleep, (14) to read, (i5) to write, (16) to stretch his arms and legs, (17 ) to yawn, (18) to look in any other direction than straight ahead, (19) to change his place, (20) to go away before the end, (21) to complain about the heat, (22) to complain about the cold, (23) to express indignation, (24) to protest at any irritation, (25) to sigh or moan aloud, (26) to change part of his clothes, i.e. to unbutton his vest or take off his shoes, (27) to pay attention to something else, (28) to relax his brain, (29) to interrupt any expression of approval directly in opposition with his opinion, (3o) to go to that hall in his accustomed, comfortable clothes, (3i) to stop it and to continue it some other time." There are several others but, at the moment, I cannot think of them.

This person, stiffened, muzzled, kept in the dark for hours, and prohibited from all normal human functions, this person we call: a playgoer. The humanitarian movements of our enlightened age have, to a certain extent, minimized his sufferings, for he is now permitted to go out after every hour for a few minutes in order to rest his harrowed body and to gather new strength to endure the bodily pains still in store for him. Now then, what is dramaturgy? Dramaturgy is the science that has collected all the rules and regulations pertaining to the gilding of the pill to be taken by the person sentenced to undergo physical torments. This, in turn, is achieved by the demolition of one of the walls of the great hall and the showing the victim something in the cleft. This something must be so attractive that the victim should consider the above described physical torments at first as bearable, then as indifferent, and, finally, as positively desirable. So desirable, in fact, that he should even give his hard earned money in exchange for them. He should even yearn for them.

This would be the basis of my dramaturgy. Then would follow the chapters explaining in detail what low and high, superficial and deep, shallow and divine methods there are that can make the narcotic emanating from behind the opening in the demolished wall utterly effective.

§2

An Honest Confession Concerning The "Great Heart":—In literature, as well as in life, there are numerous mountebanks of the heart. It is a pleasure to show them up. I know of four types. These are: (1) Displayers of their hearts: These people act as if they had accidentally left one of their shirt buttons undone, as if through this opening the tip of their heart were visible. They wait until someone informs them of this faux pas, then they blush and quickly button their clothes. (2) Heart-rougers: These people believe that their hearts are not red enough and, therefore, they are continually smearing rouge all over them. (3) Heart-exhibitioners: They shamelessly display their hearts at all times. They act like one-year-old babies whom their parents constantly warn not to lift their little shirts up to their necks when guests are present. (4) Those who play hide and seek with their hearts: They are eternally hiding their hearts and are greatly offended if we do not immediately begin to look for them exclaiming: "You little cheat, so you have a heart—only you don't want to show it!"

It is very difficult to find the real heart in the acts of men and the works of poets. Only the spurious ones, the false ones are easily discovered. The real heart is betrayed mostly by that clutching and painful feeling of compassion that we experience at hearing of a deed or after reading a book. Astronomy has taught us that there are stars which one cannot see, not even with the help of the finest instruments—but whose presence is traceable through those disturbances, attractions and repulsions they exercise upon the stellar bodies in their neighbourhood. But their existence is proved beyond the shadow of a doubt, although they themselves will remain invisible forever. I have always had the impression that these stars are nearer to God than the visible ones.

§3

An Incorrect Business Idea:—Here is a business idea which a friend of mine, a theatrical manager, bore in despair in the course of a sleepless night. He never thought of putting it into practice; he merely tortured himself with it. He was proud, and, at the same time, ashamed of it. He told it to me aboard an express train. It ran something like this:

"Look here. People, in every metropolis, pay any price these days to hear Chaliapin. They very nearly kill each other for tickets every time he sings. They are paying ten times as much as the box-office price of the tickets. I have a marvelous idea. One could make heaps of money with it. All yor have to do is to advertise a monster Chaliapin concert in a large auditorium. And popular prices, mind you! The tickets should be ridiculously cheap, no seat should cost more than one dollar! I'd print 3ooo tickets but I'd sell only a couple of hundred at the box-office and then I'd hang out the sign: 'All tickets sold.' Then my secret agents all over town would become busy and sell the remaining 2800 tickets at a bonus, at five, even ten times the box-office price. In the meantime, I'd place one announcement after another in the newspapers that Chaliapin will sing his most popular songs, etc. I am quite sure that instead of three thousand dollars, the takings would amount to at least fifteen thousand in a few weeks. Then, as soon as I have the money in my pocket, I'd announce that Chaliapin is sick, is in hospital, cannot come, the concert is cancelled, the box-office will refund everybody the purchase price of the tickets. Of course, only the one dollar printed on them. The net profit would be $12,000." And he himself added: "And two months in jail."

§4

The Surest Signs of Success and Failure:— There was, once upon a time, a beautiful, large, so-called "heavy" specimen of embroidery at the Magyar Theater in Budapest. It was a very complicatedly coloured tablecover which required long months to make. The treasurer was working on it because the theatre was not doing very well at the time, no one came to buy tickets, and she had plenty of time to devote to the cover. Then, one day, a play scored a great hit. People were elbowing each other in front of the boxoffice, the telephone was ringing all day long. One evening, standing in the wings, I noticed that while the performance was going on, the prompter was working diligently on the embroidery. During the intermission, replying to my question, she told me this:

"The treasurer has no time these days and I have plenty. Every night the same play, the actors know their roles so well, they don't need prompting. So I'm working on it now."

A couple of months later, I passed by the box-office and I noticed that the treasurer was again embroidering.

"The new play is a flop", she said. "The prompter is yelling her lungs out but no one bothers me."

Since that time, the wandering embroidery has become a standard institution in the theatre. The treasurer and the prompter are making the most beautifully embroidered table-covers between them, year in and year out. And if anybody wants to know what business the theatre is doing, all he has to do is to find out which of the two ladies is working on the embroidery.