is the obstacle revealed, and we see that the mighty maze was not without a plan.  Here, then, the drama begins, after two acts and a half of preparation, during which we were vouchsafed no inkling of what was preparing.  It is capital drama when we come to it, really human, really tragic.  The arbitrary prohibitions of the Mosaic law have no religious or moral force either for David or for Hannah.  They feel it to be their right, almost their duty, to cast off their shackles.  In any community, save that of strict Judaism, they are perfectly free to marry.  But in thus flouting the letter of the law, Hannah well knows that she will break her father’s heart.  Even as she struggles to shake them off, the traditions of her race take firmer hold on her; and in the highly dramatic last act (a not unskilful adaptation to the stage of the crucial scene of the book) she bows her neck beneath the yoke, and renounces love that the Law may be fulfilled.”

To state the matter in other terms, we are conscious of no tension in the earlier acts of this play, because we have not been permitted to see the sword of Damocles hanging over the heads of Hannah and David Brandon.  For lack of preparation, of pointing-forward, we feel none of that god-like superiority to the people of the mimic world which we have recognized as the characteristic privilege of the spectator.  We know no more than they do of the implications of their acts, and the network of embarrassments in which they are involving themselves.  Indeed, we know less than they do:  for Hannah, as a well brought-up Jewess, is no doubt vaguely aware of the disabilities attaching to a divorced woman.  A gentile audience, on the other hand, cannot possibly foresee how—­

  “Some consequence yet hanging in the stars
  Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
  With this night’s revels.”

and, lacking that foreknowledge, it misses the specifically dramatic effect of the scenes.  The author invites it to play at blind-man’s-buff with the characters, instead of unsealing its eyes and enabling it to watch the game from its Olympian coign of vantage.

Let the dramatist, then, never neglect to place the requisite finger-posts on the road he would have us follow.  It is not, of course, necessary that we should be conscious of all the implications of any given scene or incident, but we must know enough of them not only to create the requisite tension, but to direct it towards the right quarter of the compass.  Retrospective elucidations are valueless and sometimes irritating.  It is in nowise to the author’s interest that we should say, “Ah, if we had only known this, or foreseen that, in time, the effect of such-and-such a scene would have been entirely different!” We have no use for finger-posts that point backwards.[3]