action was afoot, were more or less vague
and confused. It is therefore of great importance that each act should,
to put it briefly, bear looking back upon--that it should appear to
stand in due proportion to the general design of the play, and should
not be felt to have been empty, or irrelevant, or disappointing. This
is, indeed, a plain corollary from the principle of tension. Suspended
it may be, sometimes with positive advantage; but it must not be
suspended too long; and suspension for a whole act is equivalent to
relaxation.

To sum up: when once a play has begun to move, its movement ought to
proceed continuously, and with gathering momentum; or, if it stands
still for a space, the stoppage ought to be deliberate and purposeful.
It is fatal when the author thinks it is moving, while in fact it is
only revolving on its own axis.

* * * * *

[Footnote 1: This method of heightening the tension would have been
somewhat analogous to that employed by Oscar Wilde in Lady Windermere's
instructions to her butler, cited on p. 115.]

[Footnote 2: Dryden (_Of Dramatic Poesy_, p. 56, ed. Arnold, 1903) says:
"Our plays, besides the main design, have underplots or by-concernments,
of less considerable persons and intrigues, which are carried on with
the motion of the main plot; as they say the orb of the fixed stars, and
those of the planets, though they have motions of their own, are whirled
about by the motion of the _primum mobile_, in which they are
contained." This is an admirable description of the ideal underplot, as
conceived by our forefathers; but we find that two lines of tension jar
with and weaken each other.]

_CHAPTER XII_

PREPARATION: THE FINGER-POST

We shall find, on looking into it, that most of the technical maxims
that have any validity may be traced back, directly or indirectly, to
the great principle of tension. The art of construction is summed up,
first, in giving the mind of an audience something to which to stretch
forward, and, secondly, in not letting it feel that it has stretched
forward in vain. "You will find it infinitely pleasing," says Dryden,[1]
"to be led in a labyrinth of design, where you see some of your way
before you, yet discern not the end till you arrive at it." Or, he might
have added, "if you foresee the end, but not the means by which it is to
be reached." In drama, as in all art, the "how" is often more important
than the "what."