Under modern conditions
especially, the spectators who come to the theatre with their minds an
absolute blank as to what is awaiting them, are comparatively few; for
newspaper criticism and society gossip very soon bruit abroad a general
idea of the plot of any play which attains a reasonable measure of
success. Why, then, should we assume, in the ideal spectator to whom we
address ourselves, a state of mind which, we hope and trust, will not be
the state of mind of the majority of actual spectators?
To this question there are several answers. The first and most obvious
is that to one audience, at any rate, every play must be absolutely new,
and that it is this first-night audience which in great measure
determines its success or failure. Many plays have survived a
first-night failure, and still more have gone off in a rapid decline
after a first-night success. But these caprices of fortune are not to be
counted on. The only prudent course is for the dramatist to direct all
his thought and care towards conciliating or dominating an audience to
which his theme is entirely unknown,[1] and so coming triumphant through
his first-night ordeal.
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