Does he, the artist,
succumb? How easy to tell himself that he must get his play before the
public somehow, and that, even if it is not _his_ play now, yet the
first two acts are as he wrote them, and that, if only to feel the
thrill of the audience at that great scene between the Burglar and the
Bishop (his creations!) he must deaden his conscience to the absurdity
of a happy ending. But does he succumb? No. Heroically he tells
himself: "Anyway, I can publish it; and I'm certain that the critics
will agree with me that----" But the critics are too busy to bother
about him. They are busy informing the world that the British Drama is
going to the dogs, and that no promising young dramatist ever gets a
fair chance.
Let me say here that I am airing no personal grievance. I doubt if any
dramatist has less right to feel aggrieved against the critics, the
managers, the public, the world, than I; and whatever right I have I
renounce, in return for the good things which I have received from
them. But I do not renounce the grievance of our craft. I say that, in
the case of all dramatists, it is the business of the dramatic critics
to review their unacted plays when published. Some of them do; most of
them do not.
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