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Updated: June 10, 2025
I'll warrant you do, and a great deal more besides. Dorriforth. When the appointments are meagre and sketchy the responsibility that rests upon the actors becomes a still more serious thing, and the spectator's observation of the way they rise to it a pleasure more intense.
Then you didn't sit spellbound by the little history of the Due d'Enghien? Florentia. I sat yawning. Heavens, what a piece! Amicia. Upon my word I liked it. The last act made me cry. Dorriforth. Wasn't it a curious, interesting specimen of some of the things that are worth trying: an attempt to sail closer to the real? Auberon. How much closer? The fiftieth part of a point it isn't calculable.
Wagner was clever to go to leisurely Bayreuth among the hills the Bayreuth of spacious days, a paradise of "development." Talk to a London audience of "development!" The long runs would, if necessary, put the whole question into a nutshell. Auberon. I don't in the least understand your acharnement, in view of the vagueness of your contention. Dorriforth.
So much the better if there is to be no criticism. There is only a dirt prompter's book. One can't put one's hand upon it; one doesn't know what one is discussing. There is no "authority" nothing is ever published. Amicia. The pieces wouldn't bear that. Dorriforth. It would be a small ordeal to resist if there were anything in them. Look at the novels! Amicia. The text is the French brochure.
I also went, and I thought it all, for a sportive, wanton thing, quite painfully ugly. Auberon. Uglier than that ridiculous black room, with the invisible people groping about in it, of your precious "Duc d'Enghien?" Dorriforth. The black room is doubtless not the last word of art, but it struck me as a successful application of a happy idea.
It's the refuge of observers who are no observers and critics who are no critics. With what on earth have we to do save his execution? Florentia. I don't in the least agree with you. Amicia. Are you very sure, my poor Dorriforth? Auberon. Give him rope and he'll hang himself. Dorriforth.
Do you mean to say you don't think some conceptions are better than some others? Dorriforth. Most assuredly, some are better: the proof of the pudding is in the eating. The best are those which yield the most points, which have the largest face; those, in other words, that are the most demonstrable, or, in other words still, the most actable.
Alas! in seventeen years the beautiful, beloved Miss Milner was no longer beautiful, no longer beloved, no longer virtuous. Dorriforth, the pious, the good, the tender Dorriforth, was become a hard-hearted tyrant. Miss Woodley had grown old, but less with years than grief.
There, in the melancholy that possessed her, Miss Woodley's letters alone gave her consolation. In a short time her health became impaired; she was once in imminent danger, and during her delirium incessantly repeated her guardian's name. Miss Woodley journeyed to her at once, and so did Dorriforth, who, through the death of his cousin, Lord Elmwood, had acquired his title and estates.
"Come home to tea," Florentia said to certain friends who had stopped to speak to her in the lobby of the little theatre in Soho they had been present at a day performance by the company of the Theatre Libre, transferred for a week from Paris; and three of these Auberon and Dorriforth, accompanying Amicia turned up so expeditiously that the change of scene had the effect of being neatly executed.
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