Plays by Jacinto Benavente - Second series/Benaventiana

by John Garrett Underhill

BENAVENTIANA

A writer so subtle and various as Benavente must of necessity have conducted experiments in technique. Talent of the first rank moulds its own instruments of expression, or adapts those which exist to new purposes. It will be interesting to consider this aspect of the Benaventian theatre in the light of its history, and to anticipate, perhaps, the conclusions of the reader.

When Spanish criticism appraised the youthful Benavente as pre-eminently a satirist, it was unquestionably correct in its judgment. Although much of his early work had been serious, and the complexion of his thought as well as his attitude toward life had become apparent by 1893, wit and humor in their different forms were the qualities most characteristic of his genius; they were most personal to it, most original, and most conspicuous. His wit was incisive and penetrating, free from bias in any special connection, exhibiting remarkable power of detachment, but unmistakably, also, it was illuminative of character, with the passage of time growing more many-sided and tolerant.

The literatures of the Latin peoples have habitually been hospitable to secondary meanings, double ententes, which in certain languages, such as the Italian, have been erected into definite codes of communication. The idea is unmasked by veiling it. In its cruder phases, the by-play is one of vulgar jest, but in skilful hands, like those of Bracco in his Il frutto acerbo, it arrives at the dignity of a continual traffic in forbidden subjects, which imparts to the entire work a perpetual grimace of sex. It was apparent to Benavente that here was a medium which was susceptible of wholly different application. More than the sexual motive falls under the social ban. The mind is alive with reticences and reservations far more interesting than any ideas which it may see fit to express. Benavente develops this system of double ententes, previously confined to traffic in contraband wares, into a system of multiple ententes, in which he attempts to realize upon the stage the inarticulate as well as the articulate elements of intellect and of character.

For all its seeming simplicity, his style is one of the most complex and highly personal in literature. Primarily, it is suggestive. With the thought, he contrives to convey the implication. The direct meaning is not of chief concern, but its connotations in the mind which harbors it. It is a style built upon contrast, seizing upon the inconsistencies in which human nature is most intimately revealed. Given one point, the spectator is led to infer another, so that, without visible means, or the appearance of doing so, the playwright turns his characters inside out, till we view them with him from all sides at once, while at the same time we see through them. He shows us not only what his people think, but how they feel when they think it, their doubts and accompanying reservations. His theatre has been called a theatre of ideas, and it is a theatre of ideas in so far as ideas are an expression of intense intellectual activity. But Benavente is not concerned with ideas, he is concerned with thought as it formulates itself—with ideas in the making. Thus his comedy stimulates the mind to an extraordinary degree, in which it is possible for him to communicate to an audience what under more usual circumstances it would fail to perceive. This is what he means when he says that he does not make his plays for the public, but the public for his plays. He creates the mental attitude which is necessary for their appreciation, and, by a subtle psychologic or character dialectic, through which personality is revealed by sharp reversals and successive mental jolts, disclosing the innermost workings of the soul and its springs of action, he induces the auditor to become for an evening a collaborator himself, reading between the lines. His style may best be compared to a rational cubist art, in which the elements are all valid and intelligible in themselves, but which surrender their true significance only when taken in juxtaposition.

With Benavente, the story is never of predominant importance, nor in the beginning was his treatment of it unusual, or markedly individual. His plots unfolded symmetrically and were sufficient to sustain the interest through the customary sequence of situations and climaxes. Yet as his dialogue matured in fertility of suggestion, obviously a purely objective plot, a chain of circumstance and outward fact, with laws of its own, became an unsuitable vehicle for its transmission. The tendency of Benavente's art is away from the plastic toward the insubstantial, the transparent. A fresh adjustment became imperative. What he had accomplished with satire he next essays with plot, turning his attention to its secondary and suggestive values, transferring the emphasis from the events to the inferences which wait upon them, and the atmosphere which they create, either directly or through collocation. In the field of exposition, the method may be observed in the first act of "The Governor's Wife." A similar extension of plot had been attempted by the symbolists, through the imposition of parallel meanings upon the action. With Benavente, on the other hand, the events induce their own meaning, while, in order to permit them to do this, he deprives the story of definite form. In the polychromatic spectacles, "Saturday Night" and "The Fire Dragon," belonging to the years 1903 and 1904, vast, crowded canvases which might have been painted by Tintoretto or by Rubens, teeming with an abundance too multifarious to be imprisoned within the limits of the stage, the drama is removed from the domain of structural regularity, until it depends for its effect upon the impressions derived from a panorama of incident and of situation in which the story is swallowed up and upon occasion lost from view. These dramas may be considered the romantic outburst, the ungovernable adventure of the Benaventian theatre, by very lack of restraint stimulating the imagination to a perception, at once restless and inchoate, of the awe and majesty of life.

Variety so kaleidoscopic precludes, of course, unity of impression. At best, fact is inexpressive, and Benavente seems to have felt that, independently developed, whatever its transcendence, it was susceptible only of the broadest effects. Besides, instead of reinforcing his character satire, the sweep and apparatus of these great spectacles dissipated and bewildered it. He does not return to the manner again. Instead, he subordinates the story; it ceases to be the prime factor in the dramatic fabric, or, in any proper sense of the word, the action. Henceforward the story becomes subservient wholly to the main action, which thus is unified, and this action is entirely psychological and subjective. In life as upon the stage, says Princess Bebé, the real entertainment goes on behind the scenes. "The Bonds of Interest" provides a typical example of this new dramaturgy. Rather than the outward history of the characters, the story becomes the window through which they may be seen, as they react upon each other, and so interpret themselves. The old values are present, but they are changed. The danger which besets the reader of Benavente is not that he will fail to appreciate him, but that he will fail to appreciate him at his proper worth. His drama is a drama of character, not because it is occupied with character, but because it takes place within it, and the conflict is joined in the play and interplay of thought and emotion, of volition and inhibition, of impulse and desire, as they are colored and predetermined by tradition, by heredity, by convention, by education, and all the confused network of motive and prejudice of which conscious assertion of personality is but a part. This is the struggle of modern life, which takes place in the individual consciousness, as it accommodates itself to the complex of society and of fixed environment, the denouement of which is already foreshadowed in the mind before it is projected, imperfectly and fragmentarily, into the region of deeds and of fact.

Drama so subtle that it hovers continually among the shadows of the subliminal self, might appear to be far divorced from the stage. Yet, in reality, Benavente is one of the most theatric of writers. It must not be forgotten that he was an actor, and that as an actor he began at the bottom. The tricks of the pantomimist, the directness of the low comedian and the clown, lie at the foundation of his dramatic training. The clown's art is very simple; it is dependent upon the immediateness of the audience's response. In the popular theatres and beside the circus ring, Benavente learned that any effect may be achieved in the theatre which is capable of immediate perception—it makes no matter how subtle, how elusive the idea, so long as it is perceived. All of his effects, if they are perceived at all, are perceived easily. "The most agreeable, as well as the most artistic, expression of force is lightness." He has been enabled to ignore the common precepts of craftsmanship because of his intimate knowledge of the small change, the minor symbols of the actor's calling, which have made possible to him endless vnstas of variety and of picturesque suggestion. The task of the actor in the Benaventian theatre is to place his finger upon these minor effects, to catch the thought in the embryo, not so much to convey it as to hint its direction, to reflect the sudden flash, to pursue personality into its hiding-places, at the same time engaging the spectator and luring him along, until, passing over every facet of his subject, always moving, never still, he integrates at last this drama of the spirit with the actualities of the outward life.

"No Smoking," the first comedy included in this Second Series, is a study in obvious types and in vulgar mentality. The anecdote upon which it turns has long been familiar in Spanish, having been employed in various forms by other writers, among them by Palacio Valdés, but it is distinguished here by the singular vigor and force of the characterization, which is almost fleshly in the sense of bodily presence conveyed. The piece was contributed to the Teatro Lara, Madrid, in 1904, upon the occasion of the benefit of the comedienne Leocadia Alba.

"The Governor's Wife," acted at the Teatro de la Comedia in the same city three years previously, is a mordant satire, associated with the name of the actress, Rosario Pino, who created the rôle of Josefina. The political life of the provinces, compact of unsavory intrigue, and dominated by the perpetual pressure of the strong arm of caciquismo, or the boss system, will be found to be mirrored exactly both in incident and in atmosphere. The satire, however, never becomes utilitarian, nor does it concern itself with what is called in the literary phrase "the castigation of follies and vices." Rather than satiric, the play is profoundly ironic, descending quickly from the sphere of institutions and of politics to that of the personalities which underlie and explain them. Nowhere else has the author shown a keener eye for the niceties of human imperfection, or been so sceptical of the grip of virtue upon the line of salvation.

Upon the technical side, the comedy is interesting as an example of objective realism. It is a fabric of infinite detail, of detail heaped upon detail. In the first act, in particular, the incidents are approximately all of equal value, nor have they any conspicuous emotional quality which imparts to them coherence, or lends them unity. The detail has been related, composed, if one will, with exceptional adroitness; nevertheless, the effect arises chiefly from the absolute veracity and minute photographic property of the incidents themselves, by cumulation, as they follow each other in the bustling sequence of a provincial holiday. The material insinuates its significance without interference or interpretation upon the part of the playwright. The living scene appears before the spectator, and he comes to participate in it in so many ways that he is taken off his guard, until he acquires at last a sort of citizenship in the town of Moraleda—that abode of conventional morality—whose people he seems to know casually, as upon the street, or at the café, some fairly well, perhaps, even thoroughly, while there are others whom he scarcely remembers at all. By far the most negative and corrosive of his works, "The Governor's Wife," conjBrmed the misapprehension of Benavente at one time prevalent, as a purely destructive, maliciously clever writer.

"Princess Bebé" and "Autumnal Roses," which complete the volume, on the other hand are serious dramas, of positive content. The former, published in 1905, but withheld from the stage until 1909, is a work composed by the author peculiarly to please himself. "Sometimes I say what I think, sometimes I have regard for the opinion of others." Certain resemblances between events in the play and others not yet forgotten at the Spanish Court tempered in some degree the warmth of its reception when acted by Maria Guerrero and Fernando Díaz de Mendoza during their tenancy of the Teatro Español, although this, indeed, was not surprising when it is considered that the initial performances took place at what was then, to all intents and purposes, the National Court Theatre. "Princess Bebé" is the embodiment of the aspirations and ebullience of youth, boundless in energy, yet tormented with uncertainties and misgivings, the natural hesitations of the mind which has not yet found itself. As a painter of manners, Benavente may here be found at his best. Few plays are so various or contain so much, few disseminate an equal atmosphere of breeding or display like perception of the futile, exacerbated sentimentalities of the prostitute, the criminal, and the degenerate. The heroine is enmeshed in a snare of artificialities, seeking for truth amid environments that are most thoroughly false, from the pretentiousness of the Court through the pretenses of the theatre and the mimicries of the demi-monde, down to Bohemia and the underworld, counterfeits which are most deceptive of all.

Simple while it is most complex, brilliant in wit yet engagingly human, exact in portraiture yet at every moment incomparably suggestive, "Princess Bebé" floats before the eyes of the spectator like a web of delusions so transparent that they become luminous as truth. If the basis of reality when disclosed seems little more substantial than the unreality of appearances, it must be remembered in mitigation that the hopes of youth are high. In the words of Professor Federico de Onís, "this type of comprehensive interpretation, which plumbs the evil in humanity later to affirm the idealistic, has been the essence of what is called Spanish realism; it is the æsthetic conception of Vel*azquez and of Cervantes. The work of Benavente is a modern form of the same conception, and is, therefore, essentially Spanish in spirit." It is strange to one familiar with the national history that the modern Spanish writers who have attracted most attention abroad should have been those of the florid tradition of Murillo and of Calder*on, of Echegaray, and of Blasco Ib*añez, rather than of the high Castilian stock.

"Autumnal Roses," presented at the Teatro Español in 1905, is a comedy of Madrid life. Even before he is a Spaniard, Benavente is a Madrileno. He has drawn in this play a veracious picture of the financial circles of the capital city, of the manners of the upper middle class, which is exceptional in its simplicity. No drama could be more innocent of adventitious appeal, yet during the decade which followed its production, "Autumnal Roses" has assumed by common consent a foremost place in the contemporary Spanish theatre. It is characteristic of Benavente's plays that they grow upon the mind; not only by repetition, but through the subtlety of its charm, each succeeding play seems to cast some reflection upon and to illuminate unsuspected recesses in those which have preceded it. Properly, the comedy is the complement, or, in a sense, the sequel to "Princess Bebé," which it follows almost directly in order of composition. One is a drama of youth and the other of middle-age; in one the subject is the venturing forth of the spirit, in the other its return home again, when the disillusionments of the wander-years find their compensation in the family and beside the hearth. It is an error, however, to pronounce "Autumnal Roses" to be a glorification of bourgeois morality, or an apology for marriage when liberally construed; to read the comedy in such a light is to misconstrue and to miss its meaning. The story of Isabel and Gonzalo is laid in the home, because it is in the home that the revelation of character is most intimate and most personal, and there it is that the pleasures and sorrows of life are most quickly and most keenly felt. Yet even the home has its conventions, its prescribed manners and modes of living, in which, too, according to Benavente, the heart does not reside—much less does it in any ideal perfection. Life matures in the affections, where alone its fruits are cherished, in those attachments in which the years at last yield up their reward, after persistent struggle and patient endurance, after trials and imperfections and misunderstandings, slowly ripening into esteem, and the respect which is of long growth, made but the gentler by much forgiving, and coming to all of us in due season, in one form or another, who have borne ourselves well in the journey through life.

The theatre of Benavente is dynamic, because it deals with thought in the process of crystallization. Hence the secret of its power. It anticipates appearances, and makes short work of artificialities. Although all classes of men and women are reproduced in his work, there are no types. Through all his scenes, one will search in vain for one hero, and one will search in vain for one villain. The machinery of life plays small part in his analyses, which delve beneath occupation. The human terms of problems engage him, the postulates which inhere in their solution, the working out of these in feeling and ways of thought, and in acts afterward of human and irremediable import. He is free from nostrums and posed problems; he neither courts nor wins the unimaginative, the dull mind, nor is his drama more portentous than life, but from page to page and scene to scene it lives with a strange, vivifying power, which infuses even the slightest detail with the significance of the greatest, and makes his work in its totality one of the most human documents that literature has known. Benavente's is the most sophisticated of arts, because it is the flower of an old, anciently corrupt, disillusioned civilization, which has at length awakened spiritually and searched itself, taking account of the evil with what there is of the good, and set itself again to become strong.

Maxims by Benavente and observations upon the stage

The public demands that serious things be treated frivolously, and that nonsense be taken seriously. What it will not tolerate is serious treatment of serious things, or speaking flippantly of nonsense.

Everything that is of importance to the proper understanding of a play must be repeated at least three times during the course of the action. The first time half of the audience will understand it; the second time the other half will understand it. Only at the third repetition may we be sure that everybody understands it, except, of course, deaf persons and some critics.

The public defies comprehension. No, the public is merely curious; but curiosity passes, while respect remains.

He who thinks every day cannot think the same thing every day.

To paint in broad strokes, but so artfully that at a distance it appears as if we had painted in miniature, is at once the problem and the art of the theatre.

One-fourth part of the morality, rectitude, and sense of justice which an audience brings into the theatre would, if left outside, make the world over into paradise.

Prince Hamlet, although the prototype of doubt, like all sceptics had faith in what was most preposterous: the probability that a theatrical performance would disclose anything.

Art is a furious individualist.

All of us are shocked once a year by what goes on about us for the rest of the year without shocking us, or, indeed, attracting our attention at all.

Art is the one subject upon which aristocracy and democracy agree. Both invariably vote for foolishness and vulgarity.

It is not easy to surprise the heart while the intelligence holds out.

With very notable exceptions, the prepossession of good actors for bad plays is as general as it is deplorable.

Many, upon going to the theatre and seeing a detestable play, think mistakenly: "I could do this thing better myself." The fact is that they could do it better, only their better would be worse for the dramatic effect. In the theatre, even to be bad requires a badness all its own.

No, the theatre, like all other forms of art, is many-sided, and neither can nor should live by exclusion. All styles are good, even the dull, if there is any adequate reason for its being so. Only dulness for its own sake is inadmissible; it is not like art for art's sake. Let us be sincere with ourselves. When we read "Don Quixote" or "The Divine Comedy," or Shakespeare's plays for the first time, were we not upon the point of finding them a little tiresome? If we had permitted ourselves to be overcome by the first impression, and had ceased to read, should we not have sacrificed the most profound artistic emotions of our lives?

It is not more difficult to write a good play than it is a good sonnet, only one must know how to write it, just as one must a sonnet. This is the principal resemblance between the theatre and other forms of literature.

The theatre must be loved for itself, perhaps with greater devotion than any other form of art. The true playwright must have passed his life in the theatre, he must have seen all the plays and all the actors within his reach, and he must have acted himself. Remember that no small part of Shakespeare and Lope de Rueda and Molière was the actor. To the playwright the world must be a vast stage, men and women must be tragic heroes and heroines, or comedians in one immense farce. The most beautiful sights of nature must appeal to his eye as stage scenery. And then, too, he must have the knack of finding his plays.

If ideas were to determine what we wrote, we should always write the same thing, and what we wrote would forever be the same flummery. Art must be spontaneous, like the play of children, an expression of life, of strength, of natural abundance. Later, art will take on order and, again like the play of children, fall into a certain rhythm, so that what was at first mere activity, will presently become beauty, and at last will be found good.

The impressions of the artist are not evanescent, nor do they linger in the memory like common recollections of pleasure or of pain. The artist's brain is ruminant of emotions, transforming what at first was only heat into heat and light combined. Thus, through a constant effort of will, what was his life becomes at last the soul of his art, so that every artist can exclaim with Mme. Dorval, seeing the audience rise in enthusiastic applause: "They do well to applaud me, for I have given them my life."

The spirit of the truly great artist differs from that of the mediocre talent, who is always thoroughly at home in his works, which seem to belong to him, where he is comfortable and satisfied. To the true artist, rather, work is the prison of genius, and something forever hovers over it with the melancholy yearning of an infinite longing, seeking an outlet that it may be free. The best of his genius is not what is expressed in his works, but what escapes from them.

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Benavente's theory of translation is outlined in his preface to his own rendering of "King Lear":

"Modern criticism prefers the type of translation which is known as interlinear. It distrusts translators, and with better reason it distrusts the literary translator. Truth, however, like virtue, is always to be found upon middle ground. An interlinear translation is preferable for the use of those who are already familiar with the language of the original work, or, else, who are engaged in the study of it. To others, however, it must always prove difficult, and disagreeable as well.

"A perfect translation would be one which succeeded in conveying the spirit of the author in its entirety by means of the words which he himself would have employed, given his temperament, his individual style, his period, and even the identical circumstances under which the work was composed, had his medium of expression been the language into which it is about to be translated. To effect such an ideal translation, the translator, of course, must be none other than the author himself.

"In this translation of mine … I have sought clarity before everything else… After clarity, I have sought fidelity; whenever it has been possible for me to be a faithful translator, I have been one. Finally, I have contrived that my translation should not be altogether colorless and cold. Rather than to correctness of language or to elegance of style, I have attended to the life and spontaneity of the dramatic dialogue. Shakespeare was not only a playwright, but he was what we call to-day a man of the theatre. His sublimities and his buffooneries, his great qualities as well as his great defects, are always those of the playwright who is deeply versed in the theatre, and who is familiar with his public. He was not an actor and a manager for nothing."

These principles have been followed in the translation of these plays.