PART II

THE MODERN PLAYWRIGHT

THE DRAMATIST

When Mr George Alexander produced "Lady Windermere's Fan" at the St James's Theatre, in the spring of 1892, it created an unprecedented furore among all ranks of the playgoing public, and placed the author at once upon a pedestal in the Valhalla of the Drama; not on account of the plot, which was frankly somewhat _vieux jeu_, nor yet upon any striking originality in the types of the personages who were to unravel it, but upon the sparkle of the dialogue, the brilliancy of the epigrams, a condition of things to which the English stage had hitherto been entirely unaccustomed. The author was acclaimed as a playwright who had at last succeeded in clothing stagecraft with the vesture of literature, and with happy phrase and nimble paradox delighted the minds of his audience. What promise of a long succession of social comedies, illuminated by the intimate knowledge of his subject that he so entirely possessed, was held out to us! Here was a man who treated society as it really exists; who was himself living in it; portraying its folk as he knew them, with their virtues and vices coming to them as naturally as the facile flow of their conversation; conversation interlarded with no stilted sentences, no well- (or ill-) rounded periods, but such as that which falls without conscious effort from the lips of people who, in whatever surroundings they may be placed, are, before all things, and at all times, thoroughly at their ease. It may be objected that people in real life, even in the higher life of the Upper Ten, do not habitually scatter sprightly pleasantries abroad as they sit around the five-o'clock tea-table. That Oscar Wilde made every personage he depicted talk as he himself was wont to talk. _Passe encore._ The real fact remains that he _knew_ the social atmosphere he represented, had breathed it, and was familiar with all its traditions and mannerisms. He gave us the _tone_ of Society as it had never before been given. He was at home in it. He could exhibit a ball upon the stage where real ladies and gentlemen assembled together, quite distinct from the ancient "Adelphi guests" who had hitherto done yeoman's service in every form of entertainment imagined by the dramatist. The company who came to his great parties were at least _vraisemblables_, beings who conducted themselves as if they really might have been there. And so it was in every scene, in every situation. His types are drawn with the pen of knowledge, dipped in the ink of experience. That was his secret, the keynote of his success. And with what power he used it the world is now fully aware. It is not too much to say that Oscar Wilde revolutionised dramatic art. Henceforth it began to be understood that the playwright who would obtain the merit of a certain plausibility must endeavour to infuse something of the breath of life into his creations, and make them act and talk in a manner that was at least possible.

It has been a popular _pose_ among certain superior persons, equally devoid of humour themselves as of the power of appreciating it in others, that Oscar Wilde sacrificed dramatic action to dialogue; that his plays were lacking in human interest, his plots of the very poorest; a fact that was skilfully concealed by the sallies of smart sayings and witty repartee, which carried the hearers away during the representation, so that in the charm of the style they forgot the absence of the substance. But such is by no means the case. The author recognised, with his fine artistic _flair_, that mere talk, however admirable, will not carry a play to a successful issue without a strong underlying stratum of histrionic interest to support it. There are situations in his comedies as powerful in their handling as could be desired by the most devout stickler for dramatic intention. There are scenes in which the humorist lays aside his motley, and becomes the moralist, unsparing in his methods to enforce, _à l'outrance_, the significance of his text. In each of his plays there are moments in which the action is followed by the spectator with absorbed attention; incidents of emotional value treated in no half-hearted fashion. Such are the hall mark of the true dramatist who can touch, with the unerring instinct of the poet, the finest feelings, the deepest sympathies of his audience, and which place Oscar Wilde by the side of Victorien Sardou. As has been well written by one of our most impartial critics: "No other among our playwrights equals this distinguished Frenchman, either in imagination or in poignancy of style."

Again, it has been contended, with a sneer, that the turning out of witty speeches is but a trick, easy of imitation by any theatrical scribe who sets himself to the task. But how many of Wilde's imitators--and there have been not a few--have accomplished such command of language, such literary charm, such "fineness" of wit? Who among them all has ever managed to hold an audience spellbound in the same way? How many have succeeded in drawing from a miscellaneous crowd of spectators such spontaneous expressions of delighted approval as "How brilliant! How true!" first muttered by each under the breath to himself, and then tossed loudly from one to the other in pure enjoyment, as the solid truth, underlying the varnish of the paradox, was borne home to them? Surely, not one can be indicated. Nor is the reason far to seek. For in all Oscar Wilde's seemingly irresponsible witticisms it is not only the device of the inverted epigram that is made a characteristic feature of the dialogue; there is real human nature behind the artificialities, there is poetry beneath the prose, the grip of the master's hand in seemingly toying with truth. And it is the possession of these innate qualities that differentiates the inventor from his imitators, and leaves them hopelessly behind in the race for dramatic distinction.

To invent anything is difficult, and in proportion to its merits praiseworthy. To cavil at that which has been devised, to point with the finger of scorn at its imperfections, to "run it down," is only too easy a pastime. Oscar Wilde was before all an inventor. Whatever he touched he endowed with the gracious gift of style that bore the stamp of his own individual genius. He originated a new treatment for ancient themes. For there is no such thing as an absolutely new "plot." Every play that has been written is founded on doings, dealings, incidents that have happened over and over again. Love, licit or illicit, the mainspring of all drama, is the same to-day as it was yesterday, and will be for ever and ever in this world. One man and one woman, or one woman and two men, or again, as a pleasant variant, two women and one man. Such are the eternal puppets that play the game of Love upon the Stage of Life; the unconscious victims of the sentiment which sometimes makes for tragedy. They are always with us, placed in the same situations, and extricating themselves (or otherwise) in the same old way. So that when a new playwright is condemned by the critics as a furbisher-up of well-known _clichés_ he is hardly treated. He cannot help himself. He must tread the familiar paths, _faute de mieux_. And the public, with its big human heart and unquestioning traditions, knows this, and is satisfied therewith. Nothing really pleases people so much as to tell them something they already know. What an accomplished dramatist can do is to rehabilitate his characters by the power of his own personality, and by felicitous treatment invest his action with fresh interest. And this is what Oscar Wilde effected in stagecraft. He vitalised it.

It is well-nigh impossible, under the existing conditions of the theatre in England, to form any just appreciation of the dramatist's work at all. A novel may be read at any time, but a play depends on the caprice of a manager to "present" it or not, as suits his commercial convenience. Happily for us the comedies of Oscar Wilde are printed and published, and can be enjoyed equally in the study as in the stalls. We must go back to Congreve and Sheridan to find a parallel. It is the triumph of the _littérateur_ over the histrionic hack, the man whose volumes are taken down from the shelves where they repose, again and again, and require no adventitious aid of scenery and costume to enhance the pleasure they afford. Albeit that the habit of reading plays is not particularly an English one. The old Puritan feeling that all things theatrical were tainted with more or less immorality still clings to many a mind. Emotion is yet looked upon with suspicion, and as the theatre is the hotbed of emotion it is even now regarded in some quarters as a dangerous, if exciting, pleasure-ground. Sober-minded folk prefer rather to take their doses of love tales in the form of the novel, however inexpert, than in that of the play, however masterly it may be. Let an author put to the vote his appeal to his public through their eyes or their ears, it will be found that the eyes have it. They prefer to stop at home and read, as they consider, seriously, than to go abroad and listen to what they hold to be, trivialities. Oscar Wilde has, in great measure, been instrumental in putting these illiberal views to flight. Men and women are now to be found in the theatre when his pieces are represented who not so long ago pooh-poohed the drama from an intelligent standpoint. He has turned attention to the fact that the dramatic method of telling a story may be made as intellectually interesting as in the best-written romances of the novelist. He brought to bear upon his work a singular power of observation, a fine imagination, a unique wit, and above all, and beneath all, an extensive knowledge of human life, and human character. Plays imbued with all these qualities were bound to make their mark. He knocked away the absurd conventions, the stereotyped phrases of the stage as he knew it. He placed on it living people in the place of mechanical puppets, and by his happy inspiration created a new order in the profession of dramaturgy.

It would be an interesting subject for speculation--were it not such a deeply sad one--how far Oscar Wilde, had he been permitted to live, would have gone in the new _voie_ he had chosen for the expression of his artistic perceptions. Between "Lady Windermere's Fan" and "The Importance Of Being Earnest," the first and last of his comedies, there is evidence of very marked and rapid advancement in his art. In the former he shows us the invention of a hitherto unhandseled form of histrionic composition--the dialogue-drama. But he is feeling his way in this new departure of his, diffident of its success; while in the latter he has perfected what was more or less crude, incomplete, found wanting, and what was originally the natural hesitation of the novice has developed into the assured pronouncements of the adept. He was moving onwards. He was making theatrical history. He was becoming a power. And we who now read, mark, learn, be it on the stage or in the study, what he achieved in the production of but four modern comedies, can only premise that to-day he would have "arrived" at the meridian of his art. For, not in vain, was born the delicate wit that played around a philosophy of life, founded upon subtle observation, and one that has animated some of the most prominent literary and dramatic productions of our generation. Not in vain was struck that note of truth and sincerity in social ethics, unheard in the _ad captandum_ strains of our professional novelists. Underlying those "phraseological inversions," so daintily cooed by the dove, was the wisdom of the serpent. It is the spirit of the poet speaking through the medium of prose. It is the utterance of the great artist that must compel attention even from the Philistines who sit in the seats of the scornful.

"LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN"

(_Produced by Mr George Alexander at the St James's Theatre on 22nd February 1892_)

I Have endeavoured to indicate, I trust more or less successfully, the manner in which an enthusiastic public received the first of Oscar Wilde's comedies. Let us now glance at the attitude affected by the critics. It is not too much to say that it was of undoubted hostility. Their verdict was decidedly an inimical one. They had received an unexpected shock, and were staggering under it in an angry, helpless way. The new dramatist was a surprise, and an unpleasing one. He had in one evening destroyed the comfortable conventions of the stage, hitherto so dear to the critic's heart. He had dared to break down the barriers of ancient prejudice, and attempt something new, something original. In a word, he had dared to be himself, the most heinous offence of all! They could not entirely ignore his undeniable talent. Public opinion was on his side. So they dragged in side issues to point _their_ little moral, and adorn _their_ little tale. This is how Mr Clement Scott writes after the first performance of "Lady Windermere's Fan":

"Supposing, after all, Mr Oscar Wilde is a cynic of deeper significance than we take him to be. Supposing he intends to reform and revolutionise Society at large by sublime self-sacrifice. There are two sides to every question, and Mr Oscar Wilde's piety in social reform has not as yet been urged by anybody. His attitude has been so extraordinary that I am inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. It is possible he may have said to himself, 'I will show you, and prove to you, to what an extent bad manners are not only recognised, but endorsed in this wholly free and unrestricted age. I will do on the stage of a public theatre what I should not dare to do at a mass meeting in the Park. I will uncover my head in the presence of refined women, but I refuse to put down my cigarette. The working man may put out his pipe when he spouts, but my cigarette is too 'precious' for destruction. I will show no humility, and I will stand unrebuked. I will take greater liberties with the public than any author who has ever preceded me in history. And I will retire scatheless. The society that allows boys to puff cigarette smoke in the faces of ladies in the theatre corridors will condone the originality of a smoking author on the stage.' This may be the form of Mr Oscar Wilde's curious cynicism. He may say, 'I will test this question of manners, and show that they are not nowadays recognised.'"

So far Mr Clement Scott, then the leader of the critic band who took his tone and cheerfully followed where he led--the old story of "Les brebis de Pannege." And to show how universal was this inordinate enmity, I will quote a paragraph from, at that time, the leading journal of historical criticism, written on the withdrawal of the play after a successful "run" of nine months. After endorsing the general opinion of the play as "A comedy of Society manners pure and simple which may fairly claim its place among the recognised names in that almost extinct class of drama," the writer goes on to say in the conclusion of his article--"Not the least amusing reminiscence will be the ferocious wrath which, on its first appearance, the play provoked among the regular stage-critics, almost to a man. Except that Mr Wilde smoked a cigarette when called on, it is difficult to see why--unless it was because the comedy ran off the beaten track which is just what they are always deprecating." In this last sentence lies the _clou_ of the whole situation. The entire band had been clamouring for years for something fresh, "off the beaten track," and this is how they received it when they got it! Verily, the ways of criticism are indeed marvellous, and difficult of comprehension. But the author triumphed over them all and won his laurels despite the forces arrayed against him. His first comedy was a splendid success.

It must be conceded that there is nothing new in the plot of "Lady Windermere's Fan." It is an old tale of intrigue which has done duty on the stage over and over again. It has inspired many a play. But as I before observed, it is in its treatment by the accomplished hand that the novelty of drama lies. And here we have an interesting example of how old lamps may be made to look new at the touch of the magician's wand.

Lord and Lady Windermere have been married for a couple of years when the action of the play commences. It was a love-match, and the sky of happiness has hitherto been without a cloud. But the cloud at last appears in the guise of a certain Mrs Erlynne, a somewhat notorious _divorcée_, who has managed to gain admission into Society, in a half-acknowledged way, by means of her charms and her cash. The cash is supplied by Lord Windermere, and is in the nature of hush-money. For Mrs Erlynne turns out to be no other than Lady Windermere's mother, supposed to be long dead, and the "cloud" might prove an uncommonly inconvenient one if allowed suddenly to burst upon the unsuspicious _ménage_. So she is kept quiet by the cheques of her son-in-law. But her friends are not backward in enlightening Lady Windermere as to her husband's frequent visits to Mrs Erlynne, and one of them, the Duchess of Berwick, is more outspoken than the others, and succeeds in persuading poor innocent-minded Lady Windermere that the worst constructions should be placed upon his lordship's conduct. Mrs Erlynne has managed to induce Lord Windermere to send her a card for his wife's birthday ball, whereat, Lady Windermere, when she hears of this from her husband's lips, declares she will insult the guest openly if she arrives. But she does arrive and she is not insulted, although the celebrated fan is grasped ready to strike the blow! The ball passes off quietly enough, without any open scandal. But Lady Windermere, surprising, as she imagines, her husband in a compromising _tête-à-tête_ with the fascinating intruder, determines in a moment of nervous tension to leave the house, and betake herself to the rooms of Lord Darlington, who earlier in the evening has offered her his sympathy, and his heart. Before she departs, however, she writes her husband a letter informing him of her intentions. This letter she leaves on a bureau where he is sure to find it. It is not he who finds it, however, but Mrs Erlynne. With the instinct born of a past and vast experience she scents danger, and opens and reads it. Then her better feelings and worse heart are suddenly awakened, and she determines, at all risks, to save her daughter. Whereupon she follows her to Lord Darlington's rooms, and, after a long scene between the two women, induces Lady Windermere to return to her husband before her flight is discovered. But it is too late. Lord Darlington, with a party of friends including Lord Windermere, is returning. Their voices are heard outside the door. Lady Windermere hides behind a curtain ready to escape on the first opportunity, while Mrs Erlynne--when Lord Windermere's suspicions are aroused at the sight of his wife's fan, and he insists on searching the room--comes forth from the place where she had concealed herself, and boldly takes upon herself the ownership of the fatal _pièce á conviction_. Lady Windermere is saved, and at the end of the play is reconciled to her husband without uncomfortable explanations, while Mrs Erlynne marries an elderly adorer, who is brother to the Duchess of Berwick.

Such, in brief, is the plot of "Lady Windermere's Fan." Every playgoer will at once recognise its situations, and hail its intrigue as an old and well-tried friend; the loving husband and wife, the fascinating adventuress who comes between them and cannot be explained; the tempter who offers substantial consolation to the outraged wife; the compromising fan, or scarf, or glove (_selon les gôuts_) found by the husband in the room of the other man; the convenient curtain closely drawn as if to invite concealment; the hairbreadth escape of the wife leaving the _onus_ of the scandal to fall upon the shoulders of some self-sacrificing friend; the final reconciliation of husband and wife without any infelicitous catechism; are not these things written in the pages of all the plays that--as George Meredith so happily puts it--"deal with human nature in the drawing-rooms of civilised men and women." With certain variations they are the mainstay--the French word is _l'armature_--of every comedy of genteel passions and misunderstandings that ever existed. Now, how does Oscar Wilde contrive to clothe this dramatic skeleton with the flesh and blood of real life? How invest the familiar figures with the plausible presentment of new-born interest? Simply by the wonderful power of his personality, which dominates all he touches, and rejuvenates the venerable bones of his _dramatis personæ_, compelling them, after the fashion of the "Pied Piper," to dance to any tune he chooses to call. Or, perhaps, "sing" would be a better expression than "dance." For it is in what they say, rather than what they do, that our chief interest in them lies. We do not ask: "What are they going to do next?" That is more or less a forgone conclusion. But what we wait for with alert attention is what they are going to say next. And so we come back to that brilliant dialogue which is, as it should be, the chief feature of the play albeit that play is as well constructed as any could desire, straightforward and convincing. As a critic once wrote of it from the craftsman's point of view: "'Lady Windermere's Fan' as a specimen of true comedy is a head and shoulders above any of its contemporaries. It has nothing in common with farcical comedy, with didactic comedy, or the 'literary' comedy of which we have heard so much of late from disappointed authors, whose principal claim to literature appears to consist in being undramatic. It is a distinguishing note of Mr Wilde that he has condescended to learn his business, and has written a workmanlike play as well as a good comedy. Without that it would be worthless." In corroboration of this statement it is only necessary to note how skilfully, when it comes to the necessity of dramatic action, these scenes are handled. Take the one in the second act, where Mrs Erlynne, more or less, forces her way into Lady Windermere's ballroom. It is an episode of extreme importance, and how well led up to! Lord and Lady Windermere are on the stage together.

_Lord Windermere._ Margaret, I _must_ speak to you.

_Lady Windermere._ Will you hold my fan for me, Lord Darlington? Thanks. (_Comes down to him._)

_Lord Windermere._ (_Crossing to her._) Margaret, what you said before dinner was, of course, impossible?

_Lady Windermere._ That woman is not coming here to-night!

_Lord Windermere._ (_R.C._) Mrs Erlynne is coming here, and if you in any way annoy or wound her, you will bring shame and sorrow on us both. Remember that! Ah, Margaret! only trust me! A wife should trust her husband.

_Lady Windermere._ London is full of women who trust their husbands. One can always recognise them. They look so thoroughly unhappy. I am not going to be one of them. (_Moves up._) Lord Darlington, will you give me back my fan, please? Thanks.... A useful thing a fan, isn't it?... I want a friend to-night, Lord Darlington. I didn't know I would want one soon.

_Lord Darlington._ Lady Windermere! I knew the time would come some day: but why to-night?

_Lord Windermere._ I _will_ tell her. I must. It would be terrible if there were any scene. Margaret....

_Parker_ (_announcing_). Mrs Erlynne.

(_Lord Windermere starts. Mrs Erlynne enters, very beautifully dressed and very dignified. Lady Windermere clutches at her fan, then lets it drop on the floor. She bows coldly to Mrs Erlynne, who bows to her sweetly in turn, and sails into the room._)

If this is not effective stagecraft, I do not know what is. And the dramatist strikes a deeper, and more tragic, note in the scene later on (in the same act) where Mrs Erlynne discovers the letter of farewell that Lady Windermere had written to her husband.

(_Parker enters, and crosses towards the ballroom, R. Enter Mrs Erlynne._)

_Mrs Erlynne._ Is Lady Windermere in the ballroom?

_Parker._ Her ladyship has just gone out.

_Mrs Erlynne._ Gone out? She's not on the terrace?

_Parker._ No, madam. Her Ladyship has just gone out of the house.

_Mrs Erlynne_ (_Starts and looks at the servant with a puzzled expression on her face_). Out of the house?

_Parker._ Yes, madam--her Ladyship told me she had left a letter for his Lordship on the table.

_Mrs Erlynne._ A letter for Lord Windermere?

_Parker._ Yes, madam.

_Mrs Erlynne._ Thank you.

(_Exit Parker. The music in the ballroom stops._)

Gone out of her house! A letter addressed to her husband!

(_Goes over to bureau and looks at letter. Takes it up and lays it down again with a shudder of fear._)

No, no! it would be impossible! Life doesn't repeat its tragedies like that! Oh, why does this horrible fancy come across me? Why do I remember now the one moment of my life I most wish to forget? Does life repeat its tragedies?

(_Tears letter open and reads it, then sinks down into a chair with a gesture of anguish._)

Oh, how terrible! the same words that twenty years ago I wrote to her father! And how bitterly I have been punished for it! No; my punishment, my real punishment is to-night, is now!

I have quoted these two episodes from the second act to demonstrate how equal was the playwright to the exigencies of his art. But it is in the third act, laid in Lord Darlington's rooms, that he reaches the level of high dramatic skill. First, in the scene between the mother and daughter, written with extraordinary power and pathos, and later on, when each of the women are hidden, the "man's scene" which ranks with the famous club scene in Lord Lytton's "Money." The _blasé_ and genial tone of these men of the world is admirably caught. Their conversation sparkles with wit and wisdom--of the world _bien entendu_. But it is in Mrs Erlynne's appeal to her daughter, with all its tragic intent that the author surpasses himself. Just read it over. It is a masterpiece of restrained emotion.

_Mrs Erlynne._ (_Starts with a gesture of pain. Then restrains herself, and comes over to where Lady Windermere is sitting. As she speaks, she stretches out her hands towards her, but does not dare to touch her._) Believe what you choose about me. I am not without a moment's sorrow. But don't spoil your beautiful young life on my account. You don't know what may be in store for you, unless you leave this house at once. You don't know what it is to fall into the pit, to be despised, mocked, abandoned, sneered at--to be an outcast! to find the door shut against one, to have to creep in by hideous byways, afraid every moment lest the mask should be stripped from one's face, and all the while to hear the laughter of the world, a thing more tragic than all the tears the world has ever shed. You don't know what it is. One pays for one's sin, and then one pays again, and all one's life one pays. You must never know that. As for me, if suffering be an expiation, then at this moment I have expiated all my faults, whatever they have been; for to-night you have made a heart in one who had it not, made it and broken it. But let that pass. I may have wrecked my own life, but I will not let you wreck yours. You--why you are a mere girl, you would be lost. You haven't got the kind of brains that enables a woman to get back. You have neither the wit nor the courage. You couldn't stand dishonour. No! go back, Lady Windermere, to the husband who loves you, whom you love. You have a child, Lady Windermere. Go back to that child who even now, in pain or in joy, may be calling to you. (_Lady Windermere rises._) God gave you that child. He will require from you that you make his life fine, that you watch over him. What answer will you make to God, if his life is ruined through you? Back to your house, Lady Windermere--your husband loves you. He has never swerved for a moment from the love he bears you. But even if he had a thousand loves, you must stay with your child. If he was harsh to you, you must stay with your child. If he ill-treated you, you must stay with your child. If he abandoned you your place is with your child.

(_Lady Windermere bursts into tears and buries her face in her hands._)

(_Rushing to her_). Lady Windermere!

_Lady Windermere_ (_holding out her hands to her, helplessly, as a child might do_). Take me home. Take me home.

Few people who witnessed that situation could have done so without being deeply moved. It is Oscar Wilde the poet who speaks, not to the brain but to the heart.

Then turn from the shadow of that scene to the shimmer of the one that follows immediately, full of smartness and _jeu d'esprit_. The sprightly and irresponsible chatter of men of the world.

_Dumby._ Awfully commercial, women nowadays. Our grandmothers threw their caps over the mill, of course, but, by Jove, their granddaughters only throw their caps over mills that can raise the wind for them.

_Lord Augustus._ You want to make her out a wicked woman. She is not!

_Cecil Graham._ Oh! wicked women bother one. Good women bore one. That is the only difference between them.

* * * * *

_Dumby._ In this world there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it. The last is much the worst, the last is a real tragedy.

* * * * *

_Cecil Graham._ What is a cynic?

_Lord Darlington._ A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.

_Cecil Graham._ And a sentimentalist, my dear Darlington, is a man who sees an absurd value in everything, and doesn't know the market price of any single thing.

* * * * *

_Dumby._ Experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes.

* * * * *

_Lord Windermere._ What is the difference between scandal and gossip?

_Cecil Graham._ Oh! gossip is charming! History is merely gossip. But scandal is gossip made tedious by morality. Now I never moralise. A man who moralises is usually a hypocrite, and a woman who moralises is invariably plain. There is nothing in the whole world so unbecoming to a woman as a Nonconformist conscience. And most women know it, I'm glad to say.

And so we take our leave of "Lady Windermere's Fan."

"A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE"

(_First produced at the Haymarket Theatre by Mr Beerbohm Tree on 19th April 1903_)

Perhaps of all Oscar Wilde's plays "The Woman Of No Importance" provoked the most discussion at the time of its production. It was his second venture in the histrionic field, and people expected much. They felt that he should now be finding his feet, that whatever shortcomings, from the point of view of stagecraft, there may have been in "Lady Windermere's Fan," should now be made good. His first comedy was a well-constructed play of plot and incidents. But now, expectation rose high, and required of the author something better, something greater, something more considerable than what he had achieved before. How far were these expectations realised? How did the first-night audience of public, and critics, receive the new play? It must be confessed it was with a feeling akin to disappointment. People at first were undeniably disconcerted. They had come prepared to witness drama, possibly of stirring interest, and what they heard was dialogue of brilliant quality, indeed, but which, up to a certain point, had little to do in forwarding the action of the piece. It was a surprise, and, to most of them, a not altogether grateful one. And it came in the first act. Here the author had actually been bold enough to defy popular traditions, and to place his characters seated in a semicircle uttering epigram after epigram, and paradox upon paradox, without any regard to whatever plot there might be; for it is not until the curtain is about to fall that we get an indication, for the first time, that something is going to happen in the next act. Here was an upset indeed! A subversion of all preconceived ideas as to how a play should begin! "Words! words!" they muttered captiously, although the words were as the pearls and diamonds that fell from the mouth of the maiden in the fairy tale. And so on, through scene after scene, until we come to the unexpected meeting of Lord Illingworth with the woman he had, long ago, betrayed and abandoned. Then quickly follows the pathetic interview between mother and son, culminating in Mrs Arbuthnot's confession that the man who would befriend her son is no other than his own father, to whom he should owe nothing, save the disgrace of his birth, leading up to the _scene-à-faire_ in the final act, where Lord Illingworth's offer to make reparation to the woman he has wronged is acknowledged by a blow across the face. Here at last was drama, treated in the right spirit, and of an emotional value that cannot be too highly recognised. But the shock of the earlier acts had been a severe one, and it took all the intense human interest of the last two acts to atone for the outraged conventions of the two first. It speaks volumes of praise for the playwright's powers that he was enabled to carry his work to a successful issue, and secure for it a long run. And not only that, but to stand the critical test of revival. For, at the moment of writing these words, Mr Tree has reproduced "The Woman Of No Importance" at His Majesty's Theatre, which is crowded, night after night, with audiences eager to bring a posthumous tribute to the genius of the author.

_Apropos_ of the first act where all the _dramatis personæ_ are seated in a semicircle engaged only in conversation, and which was likened, on the occasion of the first production of the play, by an eminent critic to "Christy Minstrelism Crystallised," it may not be uninteresting to note, _en passant_, a similar arrangement of characters in a play of Mr Bernard Shaw's recently performed at the Court Theatre. This is called "Don Juan in Hell"--the dream from "Man and Superman"--mercifully omitted when that play was produced. It had nothing whatever to do with the comedy in which it was included, but is a Niagara of ideas, clumsily put together, and is more or less an exposition of the Shawian philosophy.

"Hear the result"--I quote from the critique in one of our leading journals--"The curtain rose at half-past two on a darkened stage draped in black. Enter, in turn, Don Juan, Dona Ana de Ulloa, the statue of her father, and the devil. They sat down, and for an hour and a half delivered those opinions of Mr Shaw with which we are all so terribly familiar. Every now and then there was a laugh, as, for example, when Don Juan said: 'Wherever ladies are is hell,' or, again, when he said: 'Have you ever had servants who were not devils?' It was all supposed to be very funny and very naughty, of course, especially when the statue said to Don Juan: 'If you dwelt in heaven, as I do, you would realise your advantages.' And so on, and so on, _ad nauseum_."

See now, how the parallel scene of "only talk" as written by Oscar Wilde was noticed upon its revival the other day. I quote from another journal. "Let all that can be urged against this play be granted. None the less is it worth watching the _dramatis personæ_ do nothing, so long as the mind may be tickled by this unscrupulous, fastidious wit. And, even if all the characters speak in the same accents of paradox, their moods, the essentials of them, are differentiated with a brilliancy of expression which condones the lack of dramatic movement. These things, alone, evoke my gratitude to Mr Tree for reviving so interesting and individual a comedy.... For even those utterances which seem to be mere phraseological inversions are fraught with much wisdom, and the major part of the dialogue reflects the mind of a subtle and daring social observer." And it was this "mind," keen of observation, and equipped with no ordinary wit, that dominates an audience and compels them to sit, as it were, spellbound before the demonstration of the power of its unique personality. I am informed that, to-day, in Germany, the only two modern English dramatists who are listened to are Oscar Wilde and Bernard Shaw--the poet and the proser. Truly may it be remarked: "_Les extrêmes se touchent_."

The story of "The Woman Of No Importance" is quickly told.

Lord Illingworth, a cynical _roué_, has, in his youth, betrayed a too trusting young lady, who, in consequence, gave birth to a son, by her named Gerald. When the play begins this young fellow is nineteen years old, and has, most hopelessly it would seem, fallen in love with an American heiress whose name is Hester Worsley. He is living with his mother, called Mrs Arbuthnot, at a quiet country village, where also resides Lady Hunstanton, who acts as hostess to all the smart Society folk who appear upon the scene, and among whom Lord Illingworth is the most prominent. His lordship, ignorant of their real relationship, has taken a fancy to Gerald, and offers him a private secretaryship. Whereupon his future prospects brighten up considerably. But when Mrs Arbuthnot discovers that Lord Illingworth is no other than the man who had wronged her, she does all in her power to persuade her (and his) son to refuse the offer, and, driven to extremity in her distress, tells Gerald her own history, as that of another woman. Her efforts are futile. The boy only says that the woman must have been as bad as the man, and that, as far as he can see, Lord Illingworth is now a very good fellow, and so he means to stick to him. Consequently, when his lordship insists upon Gerald keeping to the bargain, and reminds his mother that the boy will be her "judge as well as her son," should the truth of her past be brought to light, Mrs Arbuthnot is induced to hold it still secret. Unfortunately for this secret, Mrs Allonby, one of Lady Hunstanton's guests, has goaded Lord Illingworth into promising to kiss Miss Hester Worsley. This he does, much to the disgust of the fair Puritan, who loudly announces that she has been insulted. Gerald's eyes are suddenly opened to Lord Illingworth's turpitude, and with the unbridled passion of the headstrong lover cries out that he will kill him! Which, apparently, he would have done, had not Mrs Arbuthnot stepped forward, and to everybody's surprise intervened with the dramatic: "No--he is your father!"

_Tableau._ In the final act Hester Worsley, now that she knows Mrs Arbuthnot, and is determined in spite of all to marry Gerald, solves every difficulty by carrying off the mother and son to her home in the New World, where we may presume the young couple marry, and live happily ever afterwards. Before her departure from England, however, Mrs Arbuthnot, maddened by the cynical offer of tardy reparation by marriage on the part of Lord Illingworth, strikes him across the face with a glove, and at the end of the play alludes to him as "a man of no importance"; which balances his earlier description of her as "a woman of no importance."

As I have pointed out elsewhere, many of the epigrams in this play were lifted bodily from "The Picture of Dorian Gray," but after these are eliminated there remain enough to establish the reputation of any dramatist as a wit and epigrammatist of the very first rank. Much would be forgiven for one definition alone, that of the foxhunter--"the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable." And Sheridan himself might envy the pronouncement that "the youth of America is its oldest tradition."

But apart from brilliant repartee and amusing paradox, the piece is full of passages of rare beauty and moments of touching pathos. Hester Worsley's speech anent Society, which she describes as being "like a leper in purple," "a dead thing smeared with gold," is as finely written a piece of declamation as any actress could desire, apart from its high literary qualities; and Mrs Arbuthnot's confession to her boy and her appeal to him for mercy are conceived in a spirit of delicacy and reticence that only the highest art can attain. Her pathetic peroration: "Child of my shame, be still the child of my shame," touches the deepest chords of human sorrow and anguish. With a masterly knowledge of what the theatre requires, he gives us Hester at the beginning of the play inveighing against any departure from the moral code and quoting the Old Testament anent the sins of the father being visited on the children. "It is God's law," she ends up--"it is God's terrible law." Later, when she begs Mrs Arbuthnot to come away to other climes, "where there are green valleys and fresh waters" and the poor woman for whom the world is shrivelled to a palm's breadth confronts her with her own pronouncement, how beautifully introduced is her recantation: "Don't say that, God's law is only love." It has been objected to Hester that she is a prig, but no girl could be a prig who could utter a sentiment like that. She is a fine specimen of the girlhood of the late nineteenth century, travelled, cultured, frank, and fearless, and above all pure. In the artificial atmosphere of Hunstanton, where the guests are all mere worldlings, her purity and goodness stand out in high relief. If there is a prig it is Gerald who, whether he be listening to Lord Illingworth's worldly teaching as to "a well-tied tie being the first serious step in life," or hearing the story of his mother's sin, is a singularly uninteresting and commonplace young man. As to the other characters they are all admirable sketches of Society folk. Lady Caroline Pontefract tyrannising over her husband and making that gay old gentleman put on his goloshes and muffler is a delightful type of those old-fashioned _grandes dames_ who have the peerage at their fingers' ends. Nothing could be more delightfully characteristic than her opining, when Hester tells her that some of the States of America are as big as France and England put together, that they must find it very draughty. Lady Hunstanton too, who prattles away about everybody and everything and gets mixed up in all her statements, as for instance, when referring to somebody as a clergyman who wanted to be a lunatic, she is uncertain if it was not a lunatic who wanted to be a clergyman, but who at anyrate wore straws in his hair or something equally odd, is drawn with a fidelity to nature that shows what a really great student of character Oscar Wilde was. No less admirable a portrayal is that of the worldly archdeacon whose wife is almost blind, quite deaf and a confirmed invalid, yet, nevertheless, is quite happy, for though she can no longer hear his sermons she reads them at home. He it is whom Lord Illingworth shocks so profoundly, first by his assertion that every saint has a past and every sinner has a future, and finally by the flippant remark that the secret of life is to be always on the lookout for temptations, which are becoming so exceedingly scarce that he sometimes passes a whole day without coming across one. As literature alone, the play deserves to live, and will live, as a _piece de théâtre_. It has met with more success than any play of the first class within the last twenty years. The reason for that is not far to seek--it is essentially human, and the woman's interest--the keynote of the story--appeals to man and woman equally. I have seen rough Lancashire audiences, bucolic boors in small country towns, and dour hard-headed Scotsmen, sit spellbound as the story of the woman's sin and her repentance was unfolded before them. A play that can do that is imperishable, and it is no disparagement to the other brilliant dramatic works of the author that, as a popular play which will ever find favour with audiences of every class and kind, on account of its human interest and its pathos, "A Woman Of No Importance" is certain of immortality.

"THE IDEAL HUSBAND"

(_First produced at the Haymarket Theatre, under the management of Mr Lewis Waller and Mr H. H. Morell on 3rd January 1895_)

This, the third of Oscar Wilde's plays in their order of production, is undoubtedly the most dramatic. The action is rapid, the interest of the story sustained to the very end, and the dialogue always to the point. Each of the principal characters concerned in the carrying out of the plot is a distinct individualised type. What each one says or does is entirely in keeping with his, or her, personality. And that personality is in each case a well-marked and skilfully drawn one. The four _personæ_ who are engaged in conducting the intrigue of this comedy are Sir Robert Chiltern, Lady Chiltern (his wife), Lord Goring, and Mrs Cheveley. A charming _ingénue_ in the person of Miss Mabel Chiltern (Sir Robert's sister) is also instrumental in bringing the love-interest to a happy hymeneal issue. The author of their being has handed down to us, in his own inimitable way, his conception of them. Here it is:

"_Sir Robert Chiltern._ A man of forty, but looking somewhat younger. Clean-shaven, with finely-cut features, dark-haired and dark-eyed. A personality of mark. Not popular--few personalities are. But intensely admired by the few, and deeply respected of the many. The note of his manner is that of perfect distinction, with a slight touch of pride. One feels that he is conscious of the success he has made in life. A nervous temperament, with a tired look. The firmly-chiselled mouth and chin contrast strikingly with the romantic expression in the deep-set eyes. The variance is suggestive of an almost complete separation of passion and intellect, as though thought and emotion were each isolated in its own sphere through some violence of will-power. There is no nervousness in the nostrils, and in the pale, thin, pointed hands. It would be inaccurate to call him picturesque. Picturesqueness cannot survive the House of Commons. But Vandyck would have liked to paint his head."

Of _Lady Chiltern_ we do not get more than that she is "a woman of grave Greek beauty about twenty-seven years of age."

This is _Lord Goring_: "Thirty-four, but always says he is younger. A well-bred expressionless face. He is clever, but would not like to be thought so. A flawless dandy, he would be annoyed if he were considered romantic. He plays with life, and is on perfectly good terms with the world. He is fond of being misunderstood. It gives him a post of vantage."

_Mrs Cheveley_, the _âme damée_ of the plot, is thus portrayed: "Tall, and rather slight. Lips very thin and highly coloured, a line of scarlet on a pallid face. Venetian red hair, aquiline nose, a long throat. Rouge accentuates the natural paleness of her complexion. Grey-green eyes that move restlessly. She is in heliotrope, with diamonds. She looks rather like an orchid, and makes great demands on one's curiosity. In all her movements she is extremely graceful. A work of art on the whole, but showing the influence of too many schools."

In these delicious word-pictures we gain for once an idea as to how the author considered his characters, both physically and psychically. It is interesting to note that of the four published plays this is the only one in which such intimate directions are to be found. Was the author, for once in a way, allowing himself a measure of poetic licence, and giving free but eminently unpractical play to his imagination? Who may tell? At anyrate, however high he may have soared in his requirements of the performers, he comes down steadily to earth in his management of the plot, which is acted out on these lines.

In the first act we find Lady Chiltern, whose husband is Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs, giving a party at her house in Grosvenor Square. Here, among other fashionable folk who flit across the scene, we are introduced to Lord Goring, between whom and Mabel Chiltern there is evidently a more or less serious flirtation going on, especially on the young lady's side. Shortly after his first entrance Lord Goring "saunters over to Mabel Chiltern."

_Mabel Chiltern._ You are very late!

_Lord Goring._ Have you missed me?

_Mabel Chiltern._ Awfully!

_Lord Goring._ Then I am sorry I did not stay away longer. I like being missed.

_Mabel Chiltern._ How very selfish of you.

_Lord Goring._ I am very selfish.

_Mabel Chiltern._ You are always telling me of your bad qualities, Lord Goring.

_Lord Goring._ I have only told you half of them as yet, Miss Mabel....

_Mabel Chiltern._ Well, I delight in your bad qualities. I wouldn't have you part with one of them.

_Lord Goring._ How very nice of you! But then you are always nice. By the way, I want to ask you a question, Miss Mabel. Who brought Mrs Cheveley here? That woman in heliotrope who has just gone out of the room with your brother?

_Mabel Chiltern._ Oh, I think Lady Markby brought her. Why do you ask?

_Lord Goring._ I hadn't seen her for years, that is all.

But Lord Goring did not say, of course, all he knew about the brilliant Mrs Cheveley, who is very _répondue_ in the diplomatic world at Vienna, and has, in her day, been the heroine of much pretty gossip. The object of her present visit to London is to obtain an introduction to Sir Robert Chiltern, and it is when they first meet that the dramatic interest of the story commences. The lady, it appears, has invested largely, too largely, in a great political and financial scheme called the Argentine Canal Company, acting on the advice of a certain Baron Arnheim, now dead, who was also a friend of Sir Robert Chiltern's. When Mrs Cheveley informs Sir Robert what her position is, he denounces the scheme as "a commonplace Stock Exchange swindle."

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ Believe me, Mrs Cheveley, it is a swindle.... I sent out a special commission to inquire into the matter privately and they report that the works are hardly begun, and as for the money already subscribed, no one seems to know what has become of it.

A little later on he says "the success of the Canal depends of course on the attitude of England, and I am going to lay the report of the Commissioners before the House of Commons."

_Mrs Cheveley._ That you must not do. In your own interests, Sir Robert, to say nothing of mine, you must not do that.

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ (_Looking at her in wonder._) In my own interests? My dear Mrs Cheveley, what do you mean? (_Sits down beside her._)

_Mrs Cheveley._ Sir Robert, I will be quite frank with you. I want you to withdraw the report that you had intended to lay before the House, on the ground that you have reason to believe that the Commissioners had been prejudiced or misinformed or something.... Will you do that for me? (_Naturally Sir Robert is indignant at the proposition, and proposes to call the lady's carriage for her._)

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ You have lived so long abroad, Mrs Cheveley, that you seem to be unable to realise that you are talking to an English gentleman.

_Mrs Cheveley._ (_Detains him by touching his arm with her fan, and keeping it there while she is talking._) I realise that I am talking to a man who laid the foundation of his fortune by selling to a Stock Exchange speculator a Cabinet secret.

This is unfortunately only too true. For, years ago, when secretary to Lord Radley, "a great important minister," Sir Robert has written to Baron Arnheim a letter telling the Baron to buy Suez Canal shares--a letter written three days before the Government announced its own purchase, and which letter also is in Mrs Cheveley's possession! Here is a fine situation with a vengeance! By threatening to publish the scandal and the proofs of it in some leading newspaper, Mrs Cheveley induces the unfortunate Sir Robert to consent to withdraw the report, and state in the House that he believes there are possibilities in the scheme. In return for which she will give him back the compromising letter. So far, so good. She has won her cause. But, true woman as she is, she cannot conceal her triumph from Lady Chiltern as she is leaving the party.

_Lady Chiltern._ Why did you wish to meet my husband, Mrs Cheveley?

_Mrs Cheveley._ Oh, I will tell you. I wanted to interest him in this Argentine Canal Scheme, of which I daresay you have heard. And I found him most susceptible--susceptible to reason,--I mean. A rare thing in a man. I converted him in ten minutes. He is going to make a speech in the House to-morrow night, in favour of the idea. We must go to the Ladies' Gallery and hear him. It will be a great occasion.

And so she goes gaily away, leaving her hostess perplexed and troubled. But in weaving her web round the hapless husband, she had not reckoned on the influence of the wife to disentangle it, and set the victim free. Yet, in a finely-conceived, and equally well-written, scene this is what actually happened. The company have all departed and they are alone together.

_Lady Chiltern._ Robert, it is not true, is it? You are not going to lend your support to this Argentine speculation? You couldn't.

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ (_Starting._) Who told you I intended to do so?

_Lady Chiltern._ That woman who has just gone out.... Robert, I know this woman. You don't. We were at school together.... She was sent away for being a thief. Why do you let her influence you?

Then after much painful probing as to why he has so suddenly changed his attitude towards the scheme, she elicits the reason.

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ But if I told you----

_Lady Chiltern._ What?

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ That it was necessary, vitally necessary.

_Lady Chiltern._ It can never be necessary to do what is not honourable.... Robert, tell me why you are going to do this dishonourable thing?

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ Gertrude, you have no right to use that word. I told you it was a question of rational compromise. It is no more than that.

But Lady Chiltern is not to be so easily put off as that. Her suspicions are aroused. She says she knows that there are "men with horrible secrets in their lives--men who had done some shameful thing, and who, in some critical moment, have to pay for it, by doing some other act of shame." She asks him boldly, is he one of these? Then, driven to bay, he tells her the one lie of his life.

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ Gertrude, there is nothing in my past life that you might not know.

She is satisfied. But he must write a letter to Mrs Cheveley, taking back any promise he may have given her, and that letter must be written at once. He tries to gain time, offers to go and see Mrs Cheveley to-morrow; it is too late to-night. But Lady Chiltern is inexorable, and so Sir Robert yields, and the missive is despatched to Claridge's Hotel. Then, seized with a sudden terror of what the consequences may be, he turns, with nerves all a-quiver, to his wife, pleadingly--

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ O, love me always, Gertrude, love me always.

_Lady Chiltern._ I will love you always, because you will always be worthy of love. We needs must love the highest when we see it! (_Kisses him, rises and goes out._)

And the curtain falls upon this intensely emotional situation.

If I may seem to have quoted too freely from the dialogue, it is in part to refute the charge, so often urged by the critics, that Oscar Wilde's "talk is often an end in itself, it has no vital connection with the particular play of which it forms a part, it might as well be put into the mouth of one character as another...." Now in the first act of "The Ideal Husband," when the action of the piece is being carried on at high pressure, there is not a word of the dialogue that is not pertinent, no sentence that is not significant. Whatever of wit the author may have allowed himself to indulge in springs spontaneously from the woof of the story, it is not, as was suggested in his earlier plays, "a mere parasitic growth attached to it," in which this particular comedy under consideration marks an immense advance on the methods of "The Woman Of No Importance." Here is strenuous drama, treated strenuously, and dealing with the whole gamut of human emotions. The playwright, as he progresses in his art, does not here permit himself to endanger the interest of the plot by any adventitious pleasantries on the part of the characters.

In the second act we are again in Grosvenor Square, this time in a morning-room, where Sir Robert Chiltern and Lord Goring are discussing the awkward state of affairs. To Lord Goring the action of Sir Robert appears inexcusable.

_Lord Goring._ Robert, how could you have sold yourself for money?

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ (_Excitedly._) I did not sell myself for money. I bought success at a great price. That is all.

Such was his point of view. Lord Goring's now is that he should have told his wife. But Sir Robert assures him that such a confession to such a woman would mean a lifelong separation. She must remain in ignorance. But now the vital question is--how is he to defend himself against Mrs Cheveley? Lord Goring answers that he must fight her.

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ But how?

_Lord Goring._ I can't tell you how at present. I have not the smallest idea. But everyone has some weak point. There is some flaw in each one of us.

The conversation is interrupted by the entrance of Lady Chiltern. Sir Robert goes out and leaves Lord Goring and his wife together. And there follows a scene, brief, but as fine as any in the play, in which Lord Goring endeavours to prepare Lady Chiltern very skilfully for the blow that may possibly fall upon her. He deals in generalities: "I think that in practical life there is something about success that is a little unscrupulous, something about ambition that is unscrupulous always." And again: "In every nature there are elements of weakness, or worse than weakness. Supposing, for instance, that--that any public man, my father or Lord Merton, or Robert, say, had, years ago, written some foolish letter to someone...."

_Lady Chiltern._ What do you mean by a foolish letter?

_Lord Goring._ A letter gravely compromising one's position. I am only putting an imaginary case.

_Lady Chiltern._ Robert is as incapable of doing a foolish thing, as he is of doing a wrong thing.

She is still unshaken in the belief of her husband's rectitude. And Lord Goring departs sorrowing, but not before he has assured her of his friendship that would serve her in any crisis.

_Lord Goring._ ... And if you are ever in trouble, Lady Chiltern, trust me absolutely, and I will help you in every way I can. If you ever want me ... come at once to me.

Then on the scene arrives Mrs Cheveley, accompanied by Lady Markby (for whose amusing _bavardage_ I wish I could find space) evidently to revenge herself somehow for her rebuff, ostensibly to inquire after a "diamond snake-brooch with a ruby," which she has lost, probably at Lady Chiltern's. Now the audience knows all about this "brooch-bracelet," for has not Lord Goring found it on the sofa last night, when flirting with Mabel Chiltern, and recognising it as an old and somewhat ominous friend, quietly put it in his pocket, at the same time enjoining Mabel to say nothing about the incident. So, of course, the jewel has not been found in Grosvenor Square. But when the two women are left alone, Mrs Cheveley discovers that it was Lady Chiltern who dictated Sir Robert's letter to her. A bitter passage of arms occurs between them, when Lady Chiltern discusses her adversary, who boasts herself the ally of her husband.

_Lady Chiltern._ How dare you class my husband with yourself?... Leave my house. You are unfit to enter it. (_Sir Robert enters from behind. He hears his wife's last words, and sees to whom they are addressed. He grows deadly pale._)

_Mrs Cheveley._ Your house! A house bought with the price of dishonour. A house everything in which has been paid for by fraud. (_Turns round and sees Sir Robert Chiltern._) Ask him what the origin of his fortune is! Get him to tell you how he sold to a stockbroker a Cabinet secret. Learn from him to what you owe your position.

_Lady Chiltern._ It is not true! Robert! It is not true!

But Sir Robert cannot deny the accusation, and Mrs Cheveley departs, the winner of the contest. The act concludes with a terrible denunciation on the part of Sir Robert of his wife, whom he blindly accuses of having wrecked his life, by not allowing him to accept the comfortable offer made by Mrs Cheveley of absolute security from all future knowledge of the sin he had committed in his youth.

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ I could have killed it for ever, sent it back into its tomb, destroyed its record, burned the one witness against me. You prevented me.... Let women make no more ideals of men! Let them not put them on altars and bow before them, or they may ruin other lives as completely as you--you whom I have so wildly loved--have ruined mine!

Here is the sincere note of Tragedy! Surely, Oscar Wilde is among the dramatists!

The action of the third act takes place in the library of Lord Goring's house. It is inspired in the very best spirit of intrigue. Lady Chiltern, mindful of Lord Goring's friendship, has, in the first bewilderment of her discovery, written a note to him,--"I want you. I trust you. I am coming to you. Gertrude." Lord Goring is about to make preparations to receive her, when his father, Lord Caversham, most inconveniently looks in to pay him a visit, the object of which is to discuss his son's matrimonial prospects. The visit, therefore, promises to be a lengthy one, and Lord Goring proposes they should adjourn to the smoking-room, advising his servant, Phipps, at the same time that he is expecting a lady to see him on particular business, and who is to be shown, on her arrival, into the drawing-room. A lady does arrive, only she is not Lady Chiltern, but Mrs Cheveley, who has not announced her advent in any way. Surprised to hear that Lord Goring is expecting a lady, and while Phipps is lighting the candles in the drawing-room, she occupies her spare moments in running through the letters on the writing-table, and comes across Lady Chiltern's note. Here, indeed, is her opportunity. She is just about to purloin it, when Phipps returns, and she slips it under a silver-cased blotting-book that is lying on the table. She is, perforce, obliged to go into the drawing-room, from which presently she emerges, and creeps stealthily towards the writing-table. But suddenly voices are heard from the smoking-room, and she is constrained to return to her hiding-place. Lord Caversham and his son re-enter and Lord Goring puts his father's cloak on for him, and with much relief sees him depart. But a shock is in store for him, for no sooner has Lord Caversham vanished, than no less a personage than Sir Robert Chiltern appears. In vain does Lord Goring try to get rid of his most unwelcome visitor. Sir Robert has come to talk over his trouble, and means to stay. Lady Chiltern must on no account be admitted. So he says to Phipps:

_Lord Goring._ When that lady calls, tell her that I am not expected home this evening. Tell her that I have been suddenly called out of town. You understand?

_Phipps._ The lady is in that room, my lord. You told me to show her into that room, my lord.

Lord Goring realises that things are getting a little uncomfortable, and again tries to send Sir Robert away. But Sir Robert pleads for five minutes more. He is on his way to the House of Commons. "The debate on the Argentine Canal is to begin at eleven." As he makes this announcement a chair is heard to fall in the drawing-room. He suspects a listener, and, despite Lord Goring's word of honour to the contrary, determines to see for himself, and goes into the room, leaving Lord Goring in a fearful state of mind. He soon returns, however, "with a look of scorn on his face."

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ What explanation have you to give me for the presence of that woman here?

_Lord Goring._ Robert, I swear to you on my honour that that lady is stainless and guiltless of all offence towards you.

_Sir Robert Chiltern._ She is a vile, an infamous thing!

After a few more speeches, in which the _malentendu_ is well kept up, Sir Robert goes out, and Lord Goring rushes to the drawing-room to meet--Mrs Cheveley.

And now this woman is going to have another duel, but this time with an enemy who is proof against her attacks. The whole of this scene is imagined and written in a masterly manner. After a little airy sparring, Lord Goring opens the match.

_Lord Goring._ You have come here to sell me Robert Chiltern's letter, haven't you?

_Mrs Cheveley._ To offer it you on conditions. How did you guess that?

_Lord Goring._ Because you haven't mentioned the subject. Have you got it with you?

_Mrs Cheveley._ (_Sitting down._) Oh, no! A well-made dress has no pockets.

_Lord Goring._ What is your price for it?

Then, Mrs Cheveley tells him that the price is--herself. She is tired of living abroad, and wants to come to London and have a salon. She vows to him that he is the only person she has ever cared for, and that on the morning of the day he marries her she will give him Sir Robert's letter. Naturally he refuses her offer. Naturally she is furious. But she still possesses the incriminating document and hurls her venomous words at his head.

_Mrs Chiltern._ For the privilege of being your wife I was ready to surrender a great prize, the climax of my diplomatic career. You decline. Very well. If Sir Robert doesn't uphold my Argentine Scheme, I expose him. _Voilà tout!_

But he cares not for her threats. He hasn't done with her yet, for he has got in his possession the diamond snake-brooch with a ruby! This scene is most skilfully managed. Quite innocently he offers to return it to her--he had found it accidentally last night. And then in a moment he clasps it on her arm.

_Mrs Cheveley._ I never knew it could be worn as a bracelet ... it looks very well on me as a bracelet, doesn't it?

_Lord Goring._ Yes, much better than when I saw it last.

_Mrs Cheveley._ When did you see it last?

_Lord Goring._ (_Calmly._) Oh! ten years ago, on Lady Berkshire, from whom you stole it.

Now, he has her in his power. The bracelet cannot be unclasped unless she knows the secret of the spring, and she is at his mercy, a convicted thief. He moves towards the bell to summon his servant to fetch the police. "To-morrow the Berkshires will prosecute you." What is she to do? She will do anything in the world he wants.

_Lord Goring._ Give me Robert Chiltern's letter.

_Mrs Cheveley._ I have not got it with me. I will give it you to-morrow.

_Lord Goring._ You know you are lying. Give it me at once. (_Mrs Cheveley pulls the letter out and hands it to him. She is horribly pale._) This is it?

_Mrs Cheveley._ (_In a hoarse voice._) Yes.

Whereupon he burns it over the lamp. So letter number one is got out of the way. But there is letter number two: Lady Chiltern's to Lord Goring. The accomplished thief sees it just showing from under the blotting-book; asks Lord Goring for a glass of water, and while his back is turned steals it. So, though she has lost the day on one count she has gained it on another. With a bitter note of triumph in her voice she tells Lord Goring that she is going to send Lady Chiltern's "love-letter" to him to Sir Robert. He tries to wrest it from her, but she is too quick for him, and rings the electric bell. Phipps appears, and she is safe.

_Mrs Cheveley._ (_After a pause._) Lord Goring merely rang that you should show me out. Good-night, Lord Goring.

And on this fine situation the curtain falls.

Space does not permit me more than to indicate how, in the fourth and last act, Sir Robert Chiltern has roundly denounced the Argentine Canal Scheme in the House of Commons, and with it the whole system of modern political finance. How Lady Chiltern's letter to Lord Goring does reach her husband, and is by him supposed to be addressed to him. How Lady Chiltern undeceives him, and confesses the truth. How Lord Goring becomes engaged to Mabel, and Sir Robert Chiltern accepts, after some hesitation, a vacant seat in the Cabinet, and peace is restored all round. These episodes, cleverly and naturally handled, bring "The Ideal Husband" to a satisfactory conclusion. It is certainly the most dramatic of all Oscar Wilde's comedies, and could well bear revival.

"THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST"

A deliciously airily irresponsible comedy. Such is the "The Importance Of Being Earnest," the most personally characteristic expression of Wilde's art, and the last of the dramatic productions written under his own name. The play bubbles over with mirth and fun. It is one unbroken series of laughable situations and amusing surprises. The dialogue has all the sparkle of bubbles from a gushing spring, and is brimful of quaint conceits and diverting paradoxes. Even the genius of W. S. Gilbert in the fantastic line pales before the irresponsible frolicsomeness of the Irishman's wit. His fancy disports itself in an atmosphere of epigrams like a young colt in a meadow. Never since the days of Sheridan has anything been written to equal the brilliancy of this trifle for serious people. No one could fail to be amused by its delicate persiflage, its youthfulness and its utter irresponsibility.

Were one to take the works of Gyp, Gilbert, Henri Lavedan and Sheridan and roll them into one, one would not even then obtain the essence of sparkling comedy that animates the play. It is a trifle, but how clever, how artistically perfect a trifle. When it was produced at the St James's, in February 1895, one continuous ripple of laughter shook the audience, even as a field of standing corn is swayed by a passing breeze. The reading of the play alone makes one feel frivolous, and when the characters stood before one, suiting the action to the word and the word to the action, the effect was absolutely irresistible and even the gravest and most slow-witted were moved to rollicking hilarity. One critic summed it up by saying that "its title was a pun, its story a conundrum, its characters lunatics, its dialogue a 'galimatias,' and its termination a 'sell.' Questioned as to its merits, Wilde was credited with saying that "The first act was ingenious, the second beautiful, the third abominably clever." It was most beautifully staged by Mr George Alexander, and I can see still the charming picture presented by Miss Millard in the delightful garden scene as she watered her rose bushes with a water-can filled with silver sand. The acting, too, left nothing to be desired and altogether it was a performance to linger in one's memory in the years to come.

The Ernest of the punning title is an imaginary brother, very wicked and gay, invented by John Worthing, J.P., to account to his ward (Cecily Cardew) for his frequent visits to London. John Worthing, it may be mentioned, is a foundling who was discovered when a baby in the cloak-room at a railway station inside a black bag stamped with the initials of the absent-minded governess who had inadvertently placed him in it instead of the manuscript of a three-volume novel. Now, Worthing has a friend, a gay young dog, named Alexander Moncrieffe who likewise has invented a fictitious personage, a sick friend, visits to whom he makes serve as the reason of his absences from home. He has given this imaginary friend the name of Bunbury, and designates his little expeditions as "Bunburying." Moncrieffe lives in town, and is more or less the model Worthing has chosen when describing his imaginary brother. Worthing's ward is a romantic girl who has fallen in love with her guardian's brother from his descriptions of him. She is especially enamoured of his name, Ernest, for like old Mr Shandy she has quite pronounced views and opinions about names. Now, the reason of Worthing's constant visits to town is to see a young lady yclept Gwendolen Fairfax, a cousin of Moncrieffe's, to whom he proposes and is accepted, but, for some unexplained reason, for his periodical visits to town he adopts the name of Ernest, so that Gwendolen, who, like Cecily, has distinctive ideas about names, only knows him by that name. So it will be seen that we have already two Ernests in the field--the imaginary brother whose moral delinquencies are such a cause of worry to Cecily's guardian, and the guardian himself masquerading as Ernest Worthing. A pretty combination for complications to start with, but the author strews Ernest about with a prodigality that excites our admiration, and he gives us a third Ernest in the person of Alexander Moncrieffe, who, learning that his friend is left alone at home, and that she is extremely beautiful, determines to go down and make love to her. In order to gain admittance to the house, he passes himself off as Ernest Worthing, the imaginary naughty brother, and is warmly welcomed by Cecily. In ten minutes he has wooed and won her, and the happy pair disappear into the house just before John Worthing arrives on the scene. Now that he has proposed and been accepted there is no longer any necessity for inventing an excuse for his absences from home, and in order to be rid of what might prove to be an embarrassing, although a purely fictitious, person, he has invented a story of his putative brother's death in Paris. He enters dressed in complete black, black frock-coat, black tie, black hatband, and black-bordered handkerchief. There follows a delightful comedy scene between him and Algernon, whose imposture he cannot expose without betraying himself. Meanwhile, Gwendolen has followed her sweetheart to make the acquaintance of Cecily, and now arrives _en scene_. The two girls become bosom friends at once, and all goes happily until the name of Ernest Worthing is mentioned, and although no such person exists yet each of them imagines herself to be engaged to him. The situation is, to use a theatrical slang term, "worked up," and the young ladies pass from terms of endearment to mutual recriminations. A pitched battle is on the tapis, but with the appearance of their lovers, and their enforced explanation, peace is restored between the two, and they join forces in annihilating with scathing word and withering look the wretches who have so basely deceived them. Never, never could either of them love a man whose name was not Ernest. Each of them was engaged to Ernest Worthing, but, in the words of the immortal Betsy Prig when referring to Mrs 'Arris, "There ain't no sich person."

The situation is embarrassing and complicated. The two delinquents offer to have themselves rechristened, but the suggestion is received with withering scorn; the situation cannot be saved by any such ridiculous subterfuge; the disconsolate wretches seek consolation in an orgy of crumpets and tea cakes. Another difficulty there is also, Lady Bracknell--Gwendolen's mother--refuses to accept as her son-in-law a nameless foundling found in a railway station. However, the production of the bag leads to the discovery of his parentage, and it turns out that his father was the husband of Lady Bracknell's sister. The question of his father's Christian name is raised, as it is thought probable that he was christened after him, and although Lady Bracknell cannot remember the name of the brother-in-law a reference to the Army List results in the discovery that it was Ernest, so that both the difficulties of birth and nomenclature are now overcome. As to Algernon, he is forgiven because he explains that his imposture was undertaken solely to see Cecily, and so the comedy ends happily as all good comedies should.

The piece is one mass of smart sayings, brilliant epigrams, and mirth-provoking lines, as when Miss Prism, Cecily's governess, tells her pupil to study political economy for an hour, but to omit, as too exciting, the depreciation of the rupee. Some of the most delightful sayings are put into the mouth of Lady Bracknell, the aristocratic dowager who is responsible for the dictum that what the age suffers from is want of principle and want of profile. Miss Prism too enunciates the aphorism that "Memory is the diary we all carry about with us," and Cecily naïvely informs us that "I keep a diary to enter the wonderful secrets of my life. If I didn't write them down I would probably forget all about them." There is also a delicious touching of feminine amenities when, during the quarrel scene, Gwendolen says to Cecily, "I speak quite candidly--I wish that you were thirty-five and more than usually plain for your age." No woman could have written better. Even the love passages are replete with humorous lines. Cecily passing her hand through Moncrieffe's hair remarks, "I hope your hair curls naturally," and with amusing candour comes his reply, "Yes, darling, with a little help from others." The servants themselves are infected with the prevailing atmosphere of frivolity. Moncrieffe apostrophising his valet exclaims, "Lane, you're a perfect pessimist," and that imperturbable individual replies, "I do my best to give satisfaction." Again, when he remarks on the fact that though he had only two friends to dinner on the previous day and yet eight bottles of champagne appear to have been drunk, the impeccable servant corrects him with, "Eight and a pint, sir," and in reply to his question, how is it that servants drink more in bachelors' chambers than in private houses, the discreet valet explains that it is because the wines are better, adding that you do get some very poor wine nowadays in private houses.

"What is the use of the lower classes unless they set us a good example?" "Divorces are made in heaven," "To have lost one parent is a misfortune, to have lost both looks like carelessness," and "I am only serious about my amusements," are samples taken haphazard of the good things in the play.

It has been objected that the piece is improbable, but it was described by the author merely as "a trivial comedy for serious people." As a contributor to _The Sketch_ so aptly put it at the time, "Why carp at improbability in what is confessedly the merest bubble of fancy? Why not acknowledge honestly a debt of gratitude to one who adds so unmistakably to the gaiety of the nation?"

The press were almost unanimous in their appreciation of the comedy. _The Athenæum's_ critic wrote, "The mantle of Mr Gilbert has fallen on the shoulders of Mr Oscar Wilde, who wears it in jauntiest fashion." And _The Times_ is responsible for the statement that "almost every sentence of the dialogue bristles with epigram of the now accepted pattern, the manufacture of this being apparently conducted by its patentee with the same facility as 'the butter-woman's rank to market.'" But more flattering still was the appreciation of the _Truth_ critic whose previous attitude to Wilde's work had been a hostile one.

"I have not the slightest intention of seriously criticising Mr O. Wilde's piece at the St James's," he writes, under the heading of "The Importance Of Being Oscar," "as well might one sit down after dinner and attempt gravely to discuss the true inwardness of a _soufflé_. Nor, unfortunately, is it necessary to enter into details as to its wildly farcical plot. As well might one, after a successful display of fireworks in the back garden, set to work laboriously to analyse the composition of a Catherine Wheel. At the same time I wish to admit, fairly and frankly, that 'The Importance Of Being Earnest' amused me very much."

It is, however, since the author's death that the great body of critics have emitted the opinion that the play is really an extremely clever piece of work and a valuable contribution to the English drama. So many pieces are apt to get _démodés_ in a few years, but now, twelve years after its production, "The Importance Of Being Earnest" is as fresh as ever, and does not date, as ladies say of their headgear. To compare the blatant nonsense that Mr Bernard Shaw foists on a credulous public as wit with the coruscating _bon mots_ of his dead compatriot, as seems to be the fashion nowadays, is to show a pitiful lack of intelligence and discernment; as well compare gooseberry wine to champagne, the fountains in Trafalgar Square to Niagara.