ne excuse for the existence of the theatre and the play they would
not act very well. But, more than that, they do not regard his play as a
sufficient vehicle for the furtherance of their careers. At the most
favourable, what they secretly think is that if they are permitted to
exercise their talents on his play there is a chance that they may be
able to turn it into a sufficient vehicle for the furtherance of their
careers. The attitude of every actor towards his part is: "My part is
not much of a part as it stands, but if my individuality is allowed to
get into free contact with it, I may make something brilliant out of
it." Which attitude is a proper attitude, and an attitude in my opinion
justified by the facts of the case. The actor's phrase is that he
_creates_ a part, and he is right. He completes the labour of creation
begun by the author and continued by the producer, and if reasonable
liberty is not accorded to him--if either the author or the producer
attempts to do too much of the creative work--the result cannot be
satisfactory.

As the rehearsals proceed the play changes from day to day. However
autocratic the producer, however obstinate the dramatist, the play will
vary at each rehearsal like a large cloud in a gentle wind. It is never
the same play for two days together. Nor is this surprising, seeing
that every day and night a dozen, or it may be two dozen, human beings
endowed with the creative gift are creatively working on it. Every
dramatist who is candid with himself--I do not suggest that he should be
candid to the theatrical world--well knows that though his play is often
worsened by his collaborators it is also often improved,--and improved
in the most mysterious and dazzling manner--without a word being
altered. Producer and actors do not merely suggest possibilities, they
execute them. And the author is confronted by artistic phenomena for
which lawfully he may not claim credit. On the other hand, he may be
confronted by inartistic phenomena in respect to which lawfully he is
blameless, but which he cannot prevent; a rehearsal is like a
battle,--certain persons are theoretically in control, but in fact the
thing principally fights itself. And thus the creation goes on until the
dress-rehearsal, when it seems to have come to a stop. And the
dramatist lying awake in the night reflects, stoically, fatalistically:
"Well, that is the play that they have made of _my_ play!" And he may be
pleased or