We may take it as a rule that any scene which requires an obviously purposeful scenic arrangement is thereby discounted.  It may be strong enough to live down the disadvantage; but a disadvantage it is none the less.  In a play of Mr. Carton’s, The Home Secretary, a paper of great importance was known to be contained in an official despatch-box.  When the curtain rose on the last act, it revealed this despatch-box on a table right opposite a French window, while at the other side of the room a high-backed arm-chair discreetly averted its face.  Every one could see at a glance that the romantic Anarchist was going to sneak in at the window and attempt to abstract the despatch-box, while the heroine was to lie perdue in the high-backed chair; and when, at the fated moment, all this punctually occurred, one could scarcely repress an “Ah!” of sarcastic satisfaction.  Similarly, in an able play named Mr. and Mrs. Daventry, Mr. Frank Harris had conceived a situation which required that the scene should be specially built for eavesdropping.[7] As soon as the curtain rose, and revealed a screen drawn halfway down the stage, with a sofa ensconced behind it, we knew what to expect.  Of course Mrs. Daventry was to lie on the sofa and overhear a duologue between her husband and his mistress:  the only puzzle was to understand why the guilty pair should neglect the precaution of looking behind the screen.  As a matter of fact, Mrs. Daventry, before she lay down, switched off the lights, and Daventry and Lady Langham, finding the room dark, assumed it to be empty.  With astounding foolhardiness, considering that the house was full of guests, and this a much frequented public room, Daventry proceeded to lock the door, and continue his conversation with Lady Langham in the firelight.  Thus, when the lady’s husband came knocking at the door, Mrs. Daventry was able to rescue the guilty pair from an apparently hopeless predicament, by calmly switching on the lights and opening the door to Sir John Langham.  The situation was undoubtedly a “strong” one; but the tendency of modern technic is to hold “strength” too dearly purchased at such reckless expense of preparation.

There are, then, very clear limits to the validity of the Dumas maxim that “The art of the theatre is the art of preparations.”  Certain it is that over-preparation is the most fatal of errors.  The clumsiest thing a dramatist can possibly do is to lay a long and elaborate train for the ignition of a squib.  We take pleasure in an event which has been “prepared” in the sense that we have been led to desire it, and have wondered how it was to be brought about.  But we scoff at an occurrence which nothing but our knowledge of the tricks of the stage could possibly lead us to expect, yet which, knowing these tricks, we have foreseen from afar, and resented in advance.

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[Footnote 1:  Of Dramatic Poesy, ed.  Arnold, 1903, p. 60.]