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Chartres and Rheims, the real sweetness of mind in the sculptor is often overbalanced by the grotesque, by the rudeness of his strength.

Classicism, then, means for Stendhal, for that younger enthusiastic band of French writers whose unconscious method he formulated into principles, the reign of what is pedantic, conventional, and narrowly academical in art; for him, all good art is romantic. To Sainte-Beuve, who understands the term in a more liberal sense, it is the characteristic_of certain epochs, of certain spirits in every epoch, not given to the exercise of original imagination, but rather to the working out of refinements of manner on some authorized matter; and who bring to their perfection, in this way, the elements of sanity, of order and beauty in manner. In general criticism, again, it means the spirit of Greece and Rome, of some phases in literature and art that may seem of equal authority with Greece and Rome, the age of Louis the Fourteenth, the age of Johnson; though this is at best an uncritical use of the term, because in Greek and Roman work there are typical examples of the romantic spirit. But explain the terms as we may, in application to particular epochs, there are these two elements always recognizable; united in perfect art-in Sophocles, in Dante, in the highest work of Goethe, though not always absolutely balanced there; and these two elements may be not inappropriately termed the classical and romantic tendencies.

Material for the artist, motives of inspiration, are not yet exhausted: our curious, complex, aspiring age still abounds in subjects for æsthetic manipulation by the literary as well as by other

forms of art. For the literary art, at al events, the problem just now is, to induce order upon the contorted, proportionless accumulation of our knowledge and experience, our science and history. our hopes and disillusion, and, in effecting this, to do consciously what has been done hitherto for the most part too unconsciously, to write our English language as the Latins wrote theirs, as the French write, as scholars should write. Appealing, as he may, to precedent in this matter, the scholar will still remember that if "the style is the man" it is also the age: that nineteenth century too will be found to have had its style, justified by necessity-a style very different, alike from the baldness of an impossible. "Queen Anne" revival, and an incorrect. incondite exuberance, after the mode of Elizabeth: that we can only return to either at the price of an impoverishment of form or matter, or both, although, an intellectually rich age such as ours being necessarily an eclectic one, we may well cultivate some of the excellences of literary types so different as those: that in literature as in other matters it is well to unite as many diverse elements as may be: that the individual writer or artist. certainly, is to be estimated by the number of graces he combines, and his power of interpenetrating them in a given work. To discriminate schools, of art, of literature, is, of course, part of the obvious business of literary criticism: but, in the work of literary production, it is easy to be overmuch occupied concerning them. For, in truth, the legitimate contention is, not of one age or school of literary art against another, but of all successive schools alike, against the stupidity which is dead to the substance, and the vulgarity which is dead to form.

THE PROBLEM PLAY: LADY WINDERMERE'S

FAN

COMEDY, much more than tragedy, is likely to reflect the spirit of its age. It is intimate and familiar, and draws its material from the everyday life of the time. Consequently while its primary purpose is to entertain and amuse, it may at times do more. It may often reveal popular interests and sentiment and not infrequently it may touch on problems that the age is trying to solve.

The nineteenth century was in many ways an age of readjustment-economic, social, scientific, religious. The industrial revolution had been succeeded by economic changes and social reforms. The growing intellectual and economic independence of women, together with their more active participation in the life of the world, raised a number of questions that had not been prominent before. And the conflict between religion and science paved the way for a more questioning attitude towards matters of conventional morality. Consciousness of all these changes is reflected in the literature of the age-in its poetry, in the essay, and in the novel and the drama. One result in drama is the problem play.

Of the many social problems which were treated on the stage those involving marriage and the relations between men and women were most prominent. One of these problems, several times treated, is that of the woman who is trying to live. down, or at least recover from, an indiscretion or a breach of morality in her past life. What are her chances of success? To what extent does she deserve to succeed? Should she, because of one misstep, forever forfeit her right to happiness, her right to associate with people who have not sinned or have not been found out? These are interesting questions for any play to raise. When the woman has beauty, brilliancy, daring, when she is in constant danger of being betrayed, and when she stakes all chance of regaining her position on the fortune of one bold attempt, the tension becomes very great. And when to all these things are added paradox, sparkling repartee, and flashes of abundant wit, we have-Lady Windermere's Fan.

Oscar Wilde (1856-1900), besides writing plays, was an essayist, novelist, and poet. The Ballad of Reading Gaol, which sprang from his life in prison, is included in the section of Contemporary Narrative Poetry.. His plays, of which The Importance of Being Ernest and A Woman of No Importance may also be mentioned, are all highly artificial in their wit and cleverness, but, perhaps for this very reason, most readable. Lady Windermere's Fan was first performed in 1892.

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(Enter PARKER C.)

Parker. Lord Darlington.

(Enter LORD DARLINGTON. Exit PARKER) Lord Darlington. How do you do, Lady Windermere?

Lady Windermere. How do you do, Lord Darlington? No, I can't shake hands with you. My hands are all wet with these roses. Aren't they lovely? They came up from Selby this morning.

Lord Darlington. They are quite perfect. (Sees a fan lying on the table) And what a wonderful fan! May I look at it?

Lady Windermere. Do. Pretty, isn't it? It's got my name on it, and every

thing. I have only just seen it myself. It's my husband's birthday present to me. You know to-day is my birthday.

Lord Darlington. No. Is it really? Lady Windermere. Yes; I'm of age to-day. Quite an important day in my life, isn't it? That is why I am giving this party to-night. Do sit down. (Still arranging flowers)

Lord Darlington. (Sitting down) I wish I had known it was your birthday, Lady Windermere. I would have covered the whole street in front your house with

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and I sometimes think you pretend to be

worse.

Lord Darlington. We all have our little vanities, Lady Windermere.

Lady Windermere. Why do you make that your special one? (Still seated at table L.)

Lord Darlington. (Still seated L. c.) Oh, now-a-days so many conceited people go about society pretending to be good, that I think it shows rather a sweet and modest disposition to pretend to be bad. Besides, there is this to be said. If you pretend to be good, the world takes you very seriously. If you pretend to be bad, it doesn't. Such is the astounding stupidity of optimism.

Lady Windermere. Don't you want the world to take you seriously then, Lord Darlington?

Lord Darlington. No, not the world. Who are the people the world takes seriously? All the dull people one can think of, from the Bishops down to the bores. I should like you to take me very seriously, Lady Windermere, you more than any one else in life.

Lady Windermere. Why-why me? Lord Darlington. (After a slight hesitation) Because I think we might be great friends. Let us be great friends. You may want a friend some day.

Lady Windermere. Why do you say that?

Lord Darlington. Oh, we all want friends at times.

Lady Windermere. I think we're very good friends already, Lord Darlington. We can always remain so as long as you don't

Lord Darlington. Don't what?

Lady Windermere. Don't spoil it by saying extravagant, silly things to me. You think I am a Puritan, I suppose? Well, I have something of the Puritan in me. I was brought up like that. I am glad of it. My mother died when I was

her bills do you think that the wife should not console herself?

Lady Windermere. (Frowning) Console herself?

a mere child. I lived always with Lady Julia, my father's eldest sister, you know. She was stern to me, but she taught me, what the world is forgetting, the difference that there is between what is right and what is wrong. She allowed of no compromise. I allow of none. Lord Darlington. My dear Lady band is vile-should the wife be vile also? Windermere!

Lady Windermere. (Leaning back on the sofa) You look on me as being behind the age. Well, I am! I should be sorry to be on the same level as an age like this.

Lord Darlington. You think the age very bad?

Lady Windermere. Yes. Now-a-days people seem to look on life as a speculation. It is not a speculation. It is a sacrament. Its ideal is Love. Its purification is sacrifice.

Lord Darlington. (Smiling) Oh, anything is better than being sacrificed!

Lady Windermere. (Leaning forward) Don't say that.

Lord Darlington. I do say it. I feel it-I know it.

(Enter PARKER C.)

Parker. The men want to know if they are to put the carpets on the terrace for to-night, my lady?

Lady Windermere. You don't think it will rain, Lord Darlington, do you?

Lord Darlington. I won't hear of its raining on your birthday!

Lady Windermere. Tell them to do it at once, Parker. (Exit PARKER C.) Lord Darlington. (Still seated) Do you think, then of course I am only putting an imaginary instance-do you think that, in the case of a young married couple, say about two years married, if the husband suddenly becomes the intimate friend of a woman of-well, more than doubtful character, is always calling upon her, lunching with her, and probably paying

Lord Darlington. Yes, I think she should I think she has the right.

Lady Windermere. Because the hus

Lord Darlington. Vileness is a terrible word, Lady Windermere.

Lady Windermere. It is a terrible thing, Lord Darlington.

Lord Darlington. Do you know I am afraid that good people do a great deal of harm in this world. Certainly the greatest harm they do is that they make badness of such extraordinary importance. It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious. I take the side of the charming, and you, Lady Windermere, can't help belonging to them.

Lady Windermere. Now, Lord Darlington. (Rising and crossing R., front of him) Don't stir, I am merely going to finish my flowers. (Goes to table R. C.)

Lord Darlington. (Rising and moving chair) And I must say I think you are very hard on modern life, Lady Windermere. Of course there is much against it, I admit. Most women, for instance, nowa-days, are rather mercenary.

Lady Windermere. Don't talk about such people.

Lord Darlington. Well, then, setting mercenary people aside, who, of course, are dreadful, do you think seriously that women who have committed what the world calls a fault should never be forgiven?

Lady Windermere (Standing at table) I think they should never be forgiven.

Lord Darlington. And men? Do you think that there should be the same laws for men as there are for women?

Lady Windermere. Certainly!
Lord Darlington. I think life too com-

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