eties.]

[Footnote 2: The first act of Mr. Gilbert Murray's _Carlyon Sahib_
contains an incident of this nature; but it can scarcely be called a
peripety, since the victim remains unconscious of his doom.]

[Footnote 3: For the benefit of American readers, it may be well to
state that the person who changes a Bank of England note is often asked
to write his or her name on the back of it. It must have been in a
moment of sheer aberration that the lady in question wrote her
own name.]

[Footnote 4: M. Bernstein, dishing up a similar theme with a piquant
sauce of sensuality, made but a vulgar and trivial piece of work of it.]

[Footnote 5: One of the most striking peripeties in recent English drama
occurs in the third act of The Builder of Bridges, by Mr. Alfred Sutro.]

_CHAPTER XV_

PROBABILITY, CHANCE, AND COINCIDENCE

Aristotle indulges in an often-quoted paradox to the effect that, in
drama, the probable impossible is to be preferred to the improbable
possible. With all respect, this seems to be a somewhat cumbrous way of
stating the fact that plausibility is of more importance on the stage
than what may be called demonstrable probability. There is no time, in
the rush of a dramatic action, for a mathematical calculation of the
chances for and against a given event, or for experimental proof that
such and such a thing can or cannot be done. If a thing seem plausible,
an audience will accept it without cavil; if it, seem incredible on the
face of it, no evidence of its credibility will be of much avail. This
is merely a corollary from the fundamental principle that the stage is
the realm of appearances; not of realities, where paste jewels are at
least as effective as real ones, and a painted forest is far more sylvan
than a few wilted and drooping saplings, insecurely planted upon
the boards.

That is why an improbable or otherwise inacceptable incident cannot be
validly defended on the plea that it actually happened: that it is on
record in history or in the newspapers. In the first place, the
dramatist can never put it on the stage as it happened. The bare fact
may be historical, but it is not the bare fact that matters. The
dramatist cannot restore it to its place in that intricate plexus of
cause and effect, which is the essence and meaning of reality. He can
only give his interpretation of the fact; and one knows not how to
calculate the chances that his interpretation may be a false one. But
ev