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He wanted me to call it 'The Sister'! and I have before me, while I write, the stage-acting copy, with two lines of his own insertion to avoid the tragical ending Tresham was to announce his intention of going into a monastery! all this, to keep up the belief that Macready, and Macready alone, could produce a veritable 'tragedy', unproduced before.
Knowing that there was no Court of Criminal Appeal, he set the rules of procedure at defiance. Any tittle-tattle was admitted, and postmen and servants were allowed to swear as to the directions on unproduced documents alleged to have been addressed to me.
An unproduced play is like an unpublished novel: practically speaking it does not exist. The author can read it, of course, and his wife can assure him that it is a great deal better than anything she has seen or read for years; but the author and his wife are both haunted by the fact that there is a masterpiece which is lying not fallow, but unused and sterile. They grow dissatisfied.
Many of its details are comprised in the simple enumeration of the twenty-five Tattvas or principles as given in the Tattva-samâsa and other works. Of these, one is Purusha, the soul or self, which is neither produced nor productive, and the other twenty-four are all modifications of Prakṛiti or matter, which is unproduced but productive.
I took with me the scores of my three overtures which had already been performed, and also that of my great symphony as yet unproduced, and had a grand time with my Polish patron, who took me in his luxurious travelling-coach as far as the capital of Moravia.
But Plato, on the contrary, was able to appreciate the harmonious beauty of a divine Trinity, sublime incarnation of that which is "eternal, unproduced, indestructible . . . eternally uniform and consistent, and monoeidic with itself."
The older woman had opened the door to her upon that family skeleton, one of which, by the way, lurks in the cupboards of most of us the unproduced play! This one, a sketch called "The Web," read by Lilly and even placed by her with a written word of appreciation on Robert Visigoth's desk. He carried it with him to Chicago, mailing it back one day without comment.
"I mean to say, you know . . ." "What? Speak up, can't you?" Mr Saltzburg, who had been seated at the piano, absently playing a melody from his unproduced musical comedy, awoke to the fact that the services of an interpreter were needed. He obligingly left the music-stool and crept, crablike, along the ledge of the stage-box.
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