Now, let us go a little further.  Might not certain vices have the same relation to character that the rigidity of a fixed idea has to intellect?  Whether as a moral kink or a crooked twist given to the will, vice has often the appearance of a curvature of the soul.  Doubtless there are vices into which the soul plunges deeply with all its pregnant potency, which it rejuvenates and drags along with it into a moving circle of reincarnations.  Those are tragic vices.  But the vice capable of making us comic is, on the contrary, that which is brought from without, like a ready-made frame into which we are to step.  It lends us its own rigidity instead of borrowing from us our flexibility.  We do not render it more complicated; on the contrary, it simplifies us.  Here, as we shall see later on in the concluding section of this study, lies the essential difference between comedy and drama.  A drama, even when portraying passions or vices that bear a name, so completely incorporates them in the person that their names are forgotten, their general characteristics effaced, and we no longer think of them at all, but rather of the person in whom they are assimilated; hence, the title of a drama can seldom be anything else than a proper noun.  On the other hand, many comedies have a common noun as their title:  l’Avare, le Joueur, etc.  Were you asked to think of a play capable of being called le Jaloux, for instance, you would find that Sganarelle or George Dandin would occur to your mind, but not Othello:  le Jaloux could only be the title of a comedy.  The reason is that, however intimately vice, when comic, is associated with persons, it none the less retains its simple, independent existence, it remains the central character, present though invisible, to which the characters in flesh and blood on the stage are attached.  At times it delights in dragging them down with its own weight and making them share in its tumbles.  More frequently, however, it plays on them as on an instrument or pulls the strings as though they were puppets.  Look closely:  you will find that the art of the comic poet consists in making us so well acquainted with the particular vice, in introducing us, the spectators, to such a degree of intimacy with it, that in the end we get hold of some of the strings of the marionette with which he is playing, and actually work them ourselves; this it is that explains part of the pleasure we feel.  Here, too, it is really a kind of automatism that makes us laugh—­an automatism, as we have already remarked, closely akin to mere absentmindedness.  To realise this more fully, it need only be noted that a comic character is generally comic in proportion to his ignorance of himself.  The comic person is unconscious.  As though wearing the ring of Gyges with reverse effect, he becomes invisible to himself while remaining visible to all the world.  A character in a tragedy will make no change in his conduct because he will know how it is judged by us;