her words, that we have a clear vision of
all the circumstances, relations, and implications of a certain
conjuncture of affairs, in which two, at least, of the persons concerned
are ignorantly and blindly moving towards issues of which they do not
dream. We are, in fact, in the position of superior intelligences
contemplating, with miraculous clairvoyance, the stumblings and
tumblings of poor blind mortals straying through the labyrinth of life.
Our seat in the theatre is like a throne on the Epicurean Olympus,
whence we can view with perfect intelligence, but without participation
or responsibility, the intricate reactions of human destiny. And this
sense of superiority does not pall upon us. When Othello comes on the
scene, radiant and confident in Desdemona's love, our knowledge of the
fate awaiting him makes him a hundred times more interesting than could
any mere curiosity as to what was about to happen. It is our prevision
of Nora's exit at the end of the last act that lends its dramatic
poignancy to her entrance at the beginning of the first.

There is nothing absolutely new in this theory.[7] "The irony of fate"
has long been recognized as one of the main elements of dramatic effect.
It has been especially dwelt upon in relation to Greek tragedy, of which
the themes were all known in advance even to "first-day" audiences. We
should take but little interest in seeing the purple carpet spread for
Agamemnon's triumphal entry into his ancestral halls, if it were not for
our foreknowledge of the net and the axe prepared for him. But, familiar
as is this principle, I am not aware that it has hitherto been extended,
as I suggest that it should be, to cover the whole field of dramatic
interest. I suggest that the theorists have hitherto dwelt far too much
on curiosity[8]--which may be defined as the interest of ignorance--and
far too little on the feeling of superiority, of clairvoyance, with
which we contemplate a foreknown action, whether of a comic or of a
tragic cast. Of course the action must be, essentially if not in every
detail, true to nature. We can derive no sense of superiority from our
foreknowledge of an arbitrary or preposterous action; and that, I take
it, is the reason why a good many plays have an initial success of
curiosity, but cease to attract when their plot becomes familiar. Again,
we take no pleasure in foreknowing the fate of wholly uninteresting
people; which is as much as to say that characte