put on some contemptible but popular rubbish which is certain to fill
his theatre. But now we see that the dramatic critic, that stern
upholder of the best interests of the British Drama, will not himself
risk six shillings (and perhaps two or three hours of his time) in
order to read the intellectual masterpiece of the promising young
dramatist, and so to be able to tell us with authority whether the
Manager really _is_ refusing masterpieces or no. He will not
risk six shillings in order to encourage that promising young
dramatist--discouraged enough already, poor devil, in his hopes of
fame and fortune--by telling him that he _is_ right, and that his
plays are worth something, or (alternatively) to prevent him from
wasting any more of his youth upon an art-form to which he is not
suited. No, he will not risk his shillings; but he will write an
important (and, let us hope, well-rewarded) article, informing us that
the British Drama is going to the dogs, and that no promising young
dramatist is ever given a fair chance.

Absurd, isn't it?

Let us consider this young dramatist for a moment, and ask ourselves
why he goes on writing his masterpieces. I give three reasons--in
their order of importance.

(1) The pleasure of writing; or, more accurately, the hell of not
writing. He gets this anyhow.

(2) The appreciation of his peers; his hope of immortality; the
criticism of the experts; fame, publicity, notoriety, swank,
_réclame_--call it what you will. But it is obvious that he cannot
have it unless the masterpiece is given to the world, either by