ous knowledge of the author's idiosyncrasy
to assure us that she is his heroine; but so far as the evidence
actually before us goes, we have no means of forming even the vaguest
provisional judgment as to her true character. This is almost certainly
a mistake in art. It is useless to urge that sympathy and antipathy are
primitive emotions, and that we ought to be able to regard a character
objectively, rating it as true or false, not as attractive or repellent.
The answer to this is twofold. Firstly, the theatre has never been, and
never will be, a moral dissecting room, nor has the theatrical audience
anything in common with a class of students dispassionately following a
professor's demonstration of cold scientific facts. Secondly, in the
particular case in point, the dramatist makes a manifest appeal to our
sympathies. There can be no doubt that we are intended to take Lona's
part, as against the representatives of propriety and convention
assembled at the sewing-bee; but we have been vouchsafed no rational
reason for so doing. In other words, the author has not taken us far
enough into his action to enable us to grasp the true import and
significance of the situation. He relies for his effect either on the
general principle that an eccentric character must be sympathetic, or on
the knowledge possessed by those who have already seen or read the rest
of the play. Either form of reliance is clearly inartistic. The former
appeals to irrational prejudice; the latter ignores what we shall
presently find to be a fundamental principle of the playwright's
art--namely, that, with certain doubtful exceptions in the case of
historical themes, he must never assume previous knowledge either of
plot or character on the part of his public, but must always have in his
mind's eye a first-night audience, which knows nothing but what he
chooses to tell it.

My criticism of the first act of _Pillars of Society_ may be summed up
in saying that the author has omitted to place in it the _erregende
Moment_. The issue is not joined, the true substance of the drama is not
clear to us, until, in the second act, Bernick makes sure there are no
listeners, and then holds out both hands to Johan, saying: "Johan, now
we are alone; now you must give me leave to thank you," and so forth.
Why should not this scene have occurred in the first act? Materially,
there is no reason whatever. It would need only the change of a few
words to lift the scene bod