STAGE DESIGN. Until about 1900 the pictures created on any stage, generally known as scenery, had no relation to the feeling for form, colour, composition or light which art from 185o to 190o had made a common possession. The picture of the world within the theatre was invariably dull, without illusion and rigidly painted,—painted, in fact, with the same merciless and metallic precision which led Manet to exclaim before one of Meissonier's paintings of charging cuirassiers, "Everything is of steel except their breast-plates." Trees stood invariably in regimental rows and their foliage hung in separate parallel layers above their trunks. The walls of hovels or palaces reminded the most careless eye that they were merely painted canvas; the sky flapped, an ob viously painted sheet. The ugliness of the total result was all the more glaring because, in an age of realistic playwriting, actors were using every artifice they possessed to make an audience feel that they were Russian or Silesian peasants, Norwegian town coun cillors, or English clergymen and poets. Every word in the theatre was trying to convince its hearers that what they saw was not actors, but human beings in a world as real as the one they had just left to enter the theatre ; that people "were like that"; that life had this significance and that meaning. But everything on the stage reminded the audience that, after all, what they were seeing was a play in a thoroughly artificial place, the theatre, that had no relation to life. Even when a poet held the stage the result was equally ludicrous. It was difficult for the singers of Wagner to transport an audience to the beginning of the world, where the gods were deciding the destiny of men, when everything about them seemed an enlarged landscape done in chromolithograph. Mary Garden wandered in a park that had neither magic nor mystery, in the supposed gloom of palace halls as bland as litho graphs of English country houses, current in the '5os. Any sym bolism that might have lurked in Maeterlinck's fairy tale of the terror and foreboding of young love was dissipated ; and Melisande's cry "I am not happy" seemed less a comment on the state of her soul than on the preposterous stage settings that sur rounded her.
The inadequacy of this type of scenic background, so prevalent at the turn of the century, did not lie alone in its artificiality nor in the fact that it was an obvious and flimsy convention. Artificiality and the conventions of formally painted designs, as proved by the work of Inigo Jones, Berain and the Bibienas, can breed beauty in the theatre just as easily as the same tradition in the 19th cen tury bred ugliness. The reason for the change which makes painted scenery in one epoch enhance the meaning of the play and in an other detract from it, is our changed attitude towards the theatre.
The creative dramatists of the past 4o or 5o years, whom for con venience sake we may call modern, such as Ibsen, Shaw, Haupt mann, Chekov and Strindberg, Synge and O'Neill, are modern in the sense that one and all they do not regard the theatre as a place of pure entertainment. And they have succeeded so well that though we may still go to the theatre merely to be amused, we also go to watch a play with the same expectation with which we open a novel treating of modern life—in the hope of seeing more clearly into the springs of character, of getting a fresh sense of human destiny.