that is to say, were constantly stepping out of the frame of the picture; and while this visual convention maintained itself, there was nothing inconsistent or jarring in the auditory convention of the soliloquy.  Only in the last quarter of the nineteenth century did new methods of lighting, combined with new literary and artistic influences, complete the evolutionary process, and lead to the withdrawal of the whole stage—­the whole dramatic domain—­within the frame of the picture.  It was thus possible to reduce visual convention to a minimum so trifling that in a well-set “interior” it needs a distinct effort of attention to be conscious of it at all.  In fact, if we come to think of it, the removal of the fourth wall is scarcely to be classed as a convention; for in real life, as we do not happen to have eyes in the back of our heads, we are never visually conscious of all four walls of a room at once.  If, then, in a room that is absolutely real, we see a man who (in all other respects) strives to be equally real, suddenly begin to expound himself aloud, in good, set terms, his own emotions, motives, or purposes, we instantly plump down from one plane of convention to another, and receive a disagreeable jar to our sense of reality.  Up to that moment, all the efforts of author, producer, and actor have centred in begetting in us a particular order of illusion; and lo! the effort is suddenly abandoned, and the illusion shattered by a crying unreality.  In modern serious drama, therefore, the soliloquy can only be regarded as a disturbing anachronism.[5]

The physical conditions which tended to banish it from the stage were reinforced by the growing perception of its artistic slovenliness.  It was found that the most delicate analyses could be achieved without its aid; and it became a point of honour with the self-respecting artist to accept a condition which rendered his material somewhat harder of manipulation, indeed, but all the more tempting to wrestle with and overcome.  A drama with soliloquies and asides is like a picture with inscribed labels issuing from the mouths of the figures.  In that way, any bungler can reveal what is passing in the minds of his personages.  But the glorious problem of the modern playwright is to make his characters reveal the inmost workings of their souls without saying or doing anything that they would not say or do in the real world.[6]

There are degrees, however, even in the makeshift and the slovenly; and not all lapses into anachronism are equally to be condemned.  One thing is so patent as to call for no demonstration:  to wit, that the aside is ten times worse than the soliloquy.  It is always possible that a man might speak his thought, but it is glaringly impossible that he should speak it so as to be heard by the audience and not heard by others on the stage.  In French light comedy and farce of the mid-nineteenth century, the aside is abused beyond even the license of fantasy.