do not suggest that he should be candid to the theatrical world—­well knows that though his play is often worsened by his collaborators it is also often improved,—­and improved in the most mysterious and dazzling manner—­without a word being altered.  Producer and actors do not merely suggest possibilities, they execute them.  And the author is confronted by artistic phenomena for which lawfully he may not claim credit.  On the other hand, he may be confronted by inartistic phenomena in respect to which lawfully he is blameless, but which he cannot prevent; a rehearsal is like a battle,—­certain persons are theoretically in control, but in fact the thing principally fights itself.  And thus the creation goes on until the dress-rehearsal, when it seems to have come to a stop.  And the dramatist lying awake in the night reflects, stoically, fatalistically:  “Well, that is the play that they have made of my play!” And he may be pleased or he may be disgusted.  But if he attends the first performance he cannot fail to notice, after the first few minutes of it, that he was quite mistaken, and that what the actors are performing is still another play.  The audience is collaborating.

PART IV

THE ARTIST AND THE
PUBLIC

I

I can divide all the imaginative writers I have ever met into two classes—­those who admitted and sometimes proclaimed loudly that they desired popularity; and those who expressed a noble scorn or a gentle contempt for popularity.  The latter, however, always failed to conceal their envy of popular authors, and this envy was a phenomenon whose truculent bitterness could not be surpassed even in political or religious life.  And indeed, since (as I have held in a previous chapter) the object of the artist is to share his emotions with others, it would be strange if the normal artist spurned popularity in order to keep his emotions as much as possible to himself.  An enormous amount of dishonest nonsense has been and will be written by uncreative critics, of course in the higher interests of creative authors, about popularity and the proper attitude of the artist thereto.  But possibly the attitude of a first-class artist himself may prove a more valuable guide.

The Letters of George Meredith (of which the first volume is a magnificent unfolding of the character of a great man) are full of references to popularity, references overt and covert.  Meredith could never—­and quite naturally—­get away from the idea of popularity.  He was a student of the English public, and could occasionally be unjust to it.  Writing to M. Andre Raffalovich (who had sent him a letter of appreciation) in November, 1881, he said:  “I venture to judge by your name that you are at most but half English.  I can consequently believe in the feeling you express for the work of an unpopular writer.  Otherwise one would incline to be sceptical,