All are satisfied, if not with the play--they have not heard it yet--at
least with their parts. All are satisfied! It is "certain to go."

Thereupon rehearsals are held for two months before those who have the
freedom of the theater, who sit successively in the depths of the dark
hall and show the same delirium. Even the sixty firemen on duty who,
during these sixty rehearsals, have invariably laught and wept at the
same passages. Yet it is well known that the fireman is the modern
Laforêt of our modern Molières, as M. Prud'homme would say, and that
when the fireman is satisfied--it is "certain to go!"

The dress rehearsal arrives. A triumph! Bravos! Encores! Shouts!
Recalls! All of the signs of success--and note that the public on this
evening of rehearsal with the exception of a small and insignificant
contingent, will be the public of the first performance the next night.
It is "certain to go," I tell you! Certain! Absolutely certain!

On this next night the piece is presented. It falls flat! Well, then?

If the author knows what he is doing, if he is the master of his
method, explain to me then why, after having written twenty good pieces,
he writes a bad one?

And don't tell me that failure proves nothing--you would pain me, my
friend.

I do not intend to deny, you must understand, the value of talent and
skill and experience. They are, philosophically speaking, important
elements. But in what proportions do they contribute to the result?
That's what, let me repeat, nobody knows, the author as little as