an ardent disciple of the craze who has had sufficient effrontery to argue that it is a good play.  Take his last play but one, “Suzette”—­or “Suzanne,” or whatever its girl’s name was—­produced at the Paris Vaudeville last autumn.  The first act is very taking indeed.  You can see the situation of the ostracized wife coming along beautifully.  The preparation is charming, in the best boulevard manner.  But when the situation arrives and has to be dealt with—­what a mess, what falseness, what wrenching, what sickly smoothing, what ranting, and what terrific tediousness!  It is so easy to begin.  It is so easy to think of a fine idea.  The next man you meet in an hotel bar will tell you a fine idea after two whiskys—­I mean a really fine idea.  Only in art an idea doesn’t exist till it is worked out.  Brieux never (with the possible exception above mentioned) works an idea out.  Because he can’t.  He doesn’t know enough of his business.  He can only do the easy parts of his business.  Last autumn also, the Comedie Francaise revived “La Robe Rouge.”  The casting, owing to an effort to make it too good, was very bad; and the production was very bad, though Brieux himself superintended it.  But, all allowances made for the inevitable turpitudes of this ridiculous national theatre, the was senile; it was done for!  Certainly it exposes the abuses of the French magistrature, but at what cost of fundamental truth!  The melodramatic close might have been written in the Isle of Man.

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Take the most notorious of all his plays, “Les Avaries.”  It contains an admirable sermon, a really effective sermon, animated by ideas which I suppose have been in the minds of exceptionally intelligent men for a hundred years or so, and which Brieux restated in terms of dramatic eloquence.  But the sentimentality of the end is simply base.  The sentimentality of another famous play, “Maternite,” is even more deplorable.

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It is said that Brieux’s plays make you think.  Well, it depends who you are.  No, I will admit that they have several times made me think.  I will admit that, since I saw “Les Avaries,” I have never thought quite the same about syphilis as I did before.  But what I say is that this has nothing to do with Brieux’s position as a dramatist.  Brieux could have written a pamphlet on the subject of “Les Avaries” which would have impressed me just as much as his play (I happened to read the play before I witnessed it).  Indeed, if he had confined himself to a pamphlet I should have respected him more than I do.  Brieux has never sharpened my sense of beauty; he has never made me see beauty where I had failed to see it.  And this is what he ought to have done, as a serious dramatist.  He is deficient in a feeling for beauty; he is deficient in emotion.  But that is not the worst of him.  Mr. Shaw is deficient in these supreme qualities.  But Mr. Shaw is an honest playwright.  And Brieux