Concerning Letters | Page 8

fat. This, reverend Judges, is
the essence of the matter concerning the rich burgess, Pranzo, who, on
account of the sight he saw by Cethru's lanthorn, has lost the
equilibrium of his stomach. For, Sirs, the lanthorn did but show that
which was there, both fair and foul, no more, no less; and though it is
indeed true that Pranzo is upset, it was not because the lanthorn
maliciously produced distorted images, but merely caused to be seen, in
due proportions, things which Pranzo had not seen before. And surely,
reverend Judges, being just men, you would not have this lanthorn turn

its light away from what is ragged and ugly because there are also fair
things on which its light may fall; how, indeed, being a lanthorn, could
it, if it would? And I would have you note this, Sirs, that by this
impartial discovery of the proportions of one thing to another, this
lanthorn must indeed perpetually seem to cloud and sadden those things
which are fair, because of the deep instincts of harmony and justice
planted in the human breast. However unfair and cruel, then, this
lanthorn may seem to those who, deficient in these instincts, desire all
their lives to see naught but what is pleasant, lest they, like Pranzo,
should lose their appetites--it is not consonant with equity that this
lanthorn should, even if it could, be prevented from thus mechanically
buffeting the holiday cheek of life. I would think, Sirs, that you should
rather blame the queazy state of Pranzo's stomach. The old man has
said that he cannot help what his lanthorn sees. This is a just saying.
But if, reverend Judges, you deem this equipoised, indifferent lanthorn
to be indeed blameworthy for having shown in the same moment, side
by side, the skull and the fair face, the burdock and the tiger-lily, the
butterfly and toad, then, most reverend Judges, punish it, but do not
punish this old man, for he himself is but a flume of smoke, thistle
down dispersed-- nothing!"
So saying, the young advocate ceased.
Again the three Judges took counsel of each other, and after much talk
had passed between them, the oldest spoke:
"What this young advocate has said seems to us to be the truth. We
cannot punish a lanthorn. Let the old man go!"
And Cethru went out into the sunshine . . . .
Now it came to pass that the Prince of Felicitas, returning from his
journey, rode once more on his amber-coloured steed down the Vita
Publica.
The night was dark as a rook's wing, but far away down the street
burned a little light, like a red star truant from heaven. The Prince
riding by descried it for a lanthorn, with an old man sleeping beside it.
"How is this, Friend?" said the Prince. "You are not walking as I bade
you, carrying your lanthorn."
But Cethru neither moved nor answered:
"Lift him up!" said the Prince.
They lifted up his head and held the lanthorn to his closed eyes. So lean

was that brown face that the beams from the lanthorn would not rest on
it, but slipped past on either side into the night. His eyes did not open.
He was dead.
And the Prince touched him, saying: "Farewell, old man! The lanthorn
is still alight. Go, fetch me another one, and let him carry it!"
1909.

SOME PLATITUDES CONCERNING DRAMA
A drama must be shaped so as to have a spire of meaning. Every
grouping of life and character has its inherent moral; and the business
of the dramatist is so to pose the group as to bring that moral
poignantly to the light of day. Such is the moral that exhales from plays
like 'Lear', 'Hamlet', and 'Macbeth'. But such is not the moral to be
found in the great bulk of contemporary Drama. The moral of the
average play is now, and probably has always been, the triumph at all
costs of a supposed immediate ethical good over a supposed immediate
ethical evil.
The vice of drawing these distorted morals has permeated the Drama to
its spine; discoloured its art, humanity, and significance; infected its
creators, actors, audience, critics; too often turned it from a picture into
a caricature. A Drama which lives under the shadow of the distorted
moral forgets how to be free, fair, and fine--forgets so completely that
it often prides itself on having forgotten.
Now, in writing plays, there are, in this matter of the moral, three
courses open to the serious dramatist. The first is: To definitely set
before the public that which it wishes to have set before it, the views
and codes of life by which the public lives and in which it believes.
This way is the most common,