any real gift for character-creation
probably fall more or less under this illusion, though they are sane
enough and modest enough to realize that an illusion it is.[4] A
character will every now and then seem to take the bit between his teeth
and say and do things for which his creator feels himself hardly
responsible. The playwright's scheme should not, then, until the latest
possible moment, become so hard and fast as to allow his characters no
elbow room for such manifestations of spontaneity. And this is only one
of several forms of afterthought which may arise as the play develops.
The playwright may all of a sudden see that a certain character is
superfluous, or that a new character is needed, or that a new
relationship between two characters would simplify matters, or that a
scene that he has placed in the first act ought to be in the second, or
that he can dispense with it altogether, or that it reveals too much to
the audience and must be wholly recast.[5]

These are only a few of the re-adjustments which have constantly to be
made if a play is shaping itself by a process of vital growth; and that
is why the playwright may be advised to keep his material fluid as long
as he can. Ibsen had written large portions of the play now known to us
as _Rosmersholm_ before he decided that Rebecca should not be married to
Rosmer. He also, at a comparatively late stage, did away with two
daughters whom he had at first given to Rosmer, and decided to make her
childlessness the main cause of Beata's tragedy.

Perhaps I insist too strongly on the advisability of treating a dramatic
theme as clay to be modelled and remodelled, rather than as wood or
marble to be carved unalterably and once for all. If so, it is because
of a personal reminiscence. In my early youth, I had, like everybody
else, ambitions in the direction of play-writing; and it was my
inability to keep a theme plastic that convinced me of my lack of
talent. It pleased me greatly to draw out a detailed scenario, working
up duly to a situation at the end of each act; and, once made, that
scenario was like a cast-iron mould into which the dialogue had simply
to be poured. The result was that the play had all the merits of a
logical, well-ordered essay. My situations worked out like the Q.E.D.'s
of Euclid. My characters obstinately refused to come to life, or to take
the bit between their teeth. They were simply cog-wheels in a
pre-arranged mechanism. In one respec