The Secret Agent on Stage

THE SECRE'TAGEN'T ON STAGE THERE CAN BE LITTLE DOUBT THAT THE DRAMATIZATION, by another writer, and the modestly successful stage production of Conrad's novel Victory revived his ambivalent fascination with drama and crystallized his determination to try his own hand again at writing a play.1 Victory ended its run in late June, 1919; by early November Conrad was hard at work on his dramatization of his novel The Secret Agent. On November 7, he wrote to his agent, J. B. Pinker, that all his thoughts and "vital energies" were concentrated on the play, which was assuming larger and larger proportions in his mind. He had by this time finished his first draft of Act I, and was at work on Act II. He was realizing already that his chief problem was to keep the play within its proper length. "There is so much to say" he wrote, "and so much must be left out that the choice perplexes one and checks one's work." The interesting thing about this comment is Conrad's perception of what the role of the dramatist is, namely, to "say" a great many things, and to leave out a great deal. Here we see one basis for Conrad's persistent difficulties in writing drama: dialogue and cutting cannot carry a playwright all the way. What is necessary is embodiment. A few days later he had finished Act II, and had discussed production plans with Vernon Vedrenne, who appears to have indicated an interest in staging it. But Conrad was now growing uneasy at the possible impact of his rather grim novel upon a theater audience. He confessed to a "dread of the whole thing turning out repulsive to average minds and shocking to average feelings." He felt that to dramatize the novel was to reveal the story in all its starkness and horror; that "As I go on in my adaptation, stripping off the garment of artistic expression and consistent irony which clothes the story in the book, I perceive more clearly how it is bound to appear to the collective mind of the audience a merely horrible and sordid tale, giving a most unfavourable impression of both the writer himself and of his attitude to the moral aspect of the subject." In the novel, as he realized, tone and treatment had softened the impact, giving the narrative "a sort of grim dignity. But on the stage all this falls off. Every rag of the drapery drops to the ground. It is a terrible searching thing-I mean the stage." He adds that he "had no idea of what the story was" until he confronted it in his attempt to dramatize it. "Of 1 See my article, "Conrad's Stage Victory," Modern Drama, September, 1964. 54 1972 The Secret Agent ON STAGE 55 course I can't stop now," he writes, "Neither can I tamper with the truth of my conception by introducing into it any extraneous sentiment . It must remain what it is." Not only that, he continues, "since the story is horrible I shall make it as horrible as I possibly can. If there is any salvation for it, it may possibly be found just in that." But Conrad was pessimistic over the outcome. "There will be very little glory or profit in this production. In fact, I have a feeling that it will be to me rather damaging than otherwise."2 Conrad's central problem in thinking about stage drama is nowhere more clearly thrown into bold outline than in this letter. His metaphor of undressing the novel to make the play is particularly apt. What he sensed or at least feared he was losing was the "garment of artistic expression and consistent irony" which most effectively clothed the novel, resulting in a kind of grim comedy which at moments becomes macabre farce. Curiously, Conrad in this letter had apparently turned his back upon his previous conception of what constitutes story. Marlow, we are told in Heart of Darkness) saw flickering significances in his narrative , and in Conrad's best work it is exactly this flickering significance , a blend of character, mood, image and event, which is the...