This is what we inevitably exclaim as we watch Victorien Sardou, in whom French ingenuity culminated and caricatured itself, laying the foundations of one of his labyrinthine intrigues.  The absurdities of “preparation” in this sense could scarcely be better satirized than in the following page from Francisque Sarcey’s criticism of Nos Intimes (known in English as Peril)—­a page which is intended, not as satire, but as eulogy—­

At the sixth performance, I met, during the first interact, a man of infinite taste who ... complained of the lengthiness of this first act:  “What a lot of details,” he said, “which serve no purpose, and had better have been omitted!  What is the use of that long story about the cactus with a flower that is unique in all the world?  Why trouble us with that dahlia-root, which M. Caussade’s neighbour has thrown over the garden wall?  Was it necessary to inflict on us all that talk about the fox that plays havoc in the garden?  What have we to do with that mischievous beast?  And that Tolozan, with his endless digressions!  What do we care about his ideas on love, on metempsychosis, on friendship, etc.?  All this stuff only retards the action.”

“On the contrary,” I replied, “all this is just what is going to interest you.  You are impatient of these details, because you are looking out for the scenes of passion which have been promised you.  But reflect that, without these preparations, the scenes of passion would not touch you.  That cactus-flower will play its part, you may be sure; that dahlia-root is not there for nothing; that fox to which you object, and of which you will hear more talk during two more acts, will bring about the solution of one of the most entertaining situations in all drama.”

M. Sarcey does not tell us what his interlocutor replied; but he might have said, like the hero of Le Reveillon:  “Are you sure there is no mistake?  Are you defending Sardou, or attacking him?”

For another example of ultra-complex preparation let me turn to a play by Mr. Sydney Grundy, entitled The Degenerates.  Mr. Grundy, though an adept of the Scribe school, has done so much strong and original work that I apologize for exhuming a play in which he almost burlesqued his own method; but for that very reason it is difficult to find a more convincing or more deterrent example of misdirected ingenuity.  The details of the plot need not be recited.  It is sufficient to say that the curtain has not been raised ten minutes before our attention has been drawn to the fact that a certain Lady Saumarez has her monogram on everything she wears, even to her gloves:  whence we at once foresee that she is destined to get into a compromising situation, to escape from it, but to leave a glove behind her.  In due time the compromising situation arrives, and we find that it not only requires a room with three doors,[6] but that a locksmith has to be specially called in to provide