rehensible without a
long explanation of an intricate network of facts, he may be pretty sure
that he has got hold of a bad theme, or of one that stands sorely in
need of simplification.[6]

It is not sufficient, however, that a first act should fulfil Dumas's
requirement by placing the situation clearly before us: it ought also to
carry us some way towards the heart of the drama, or, at the very least,
to point distinctly towards that quarter of the horizon where the clouds
are gathering up. In a three-act play this is evidently demanded by the
most elementary principles of proportion. It would be absurd to make
one-third of the play merely introductory, and to compress the whole
action into the remaining two-thirds. But even in a four- or five-act
play, the interest of the audience ought to be strongly enlisted, and
its anticipation headed in a definite direction, before the curtain
falls for the first time. When we find a dramatist of repute neglecting
this principle, we may suspect some reason with which art has no
concern. Several of Sardou's social dramas begin with two acts of more
or less smart and entertaining satire or caricature, and only at the end
of the second or beginning of the third act (out of five) does the drama
proper set in. What was the reason of this? Simply that under the system
of royalties prevalent in France, it was greatly to the author's
interest that his play should fill the whole evening. Sardou needed no
more than three acts for the development of his drama; to have spread it
out thinner would have been to weaken and injure it; wherefore he
preferred to occupy an hour or so with clever dramatic journalism,
rather than share the evening, and the fees, with another dramatist. So,
at least, I have heard his practice explained; perhaps his own account
of the matter may have been that he wanted to paint a broad social
picture to serve as a background for his action.

The question how far an audience ought to be carried towards the heart
of a dramatic action in the course of the first act is always and
inevitably one of proportion. It is clear that too much ought not to be
told, so as to leave the remaining acts meagre and spun-out; nor should
any one scene be so intense in its interest as to outshine all
subsequent scenes, and give to the rest of the play an effect of
anti-climax. If the strange and fascinating creations of Ibsen's last
years were to be judged by ordinary dramaturgic canons,