strain it is
possible to bring it within the letter of the formula; but who can
pretend that any considerable part of the attraction or interest of the
play is due to that possibility?

The champions of the theory, moreover, place it on a metaphysical basis,
finding in the will the essence of human personality, and therefore of
the art which shows human personality raised to its highest power. It
seems unnecessary, however, to apply to Schopenhauer for an explanation
of whatever validity the theory may possess. For a sufficient account of
the matter, we need go no further than the simple psychological
observation that human nature loves a fight, whether it be with clubs or
with swords, with tongues or with brains. One of the earliest forms of
mediaeval drama was the "estrif" or "flyting"--the scolding-match
between husband and wife, or between two rustic gossips. This motive is
glorified in the quarrel between Brutus and Cassius, degraded in the
patter of two "knockabout comedians." Certainly there is nothing more
telling in drama than a piece of "cut-and-thrust" dialogue after the
fashion of the ancient "stichomythia." When a whole theme involving
conflict, or even a single scene of the nature described as a
"passage-at-arms," comes naturally in the playwright's way, by all means
let him seize the opportunity. But do not let him reject a theme or
scene as undramatic merely because it has no room for a clash of
warring wills.

There is a variant of the "conflict" theory which underlines the word
"obstacles" in the above-quoted dictum of Brunetiere, and lays down the
rule: "No obstacle, no drama." Though far from being universally valid,
this form of the theory has a certain practical usefulness, and may well
be borne in mind. Many a play would have remained unwritten if the
author had asked himself, "Is there a sufficient obstacle between my two
lovers?" or, in more general terms, "between my characters and the
realization of their will?" There is nothing more futile than a play in
which we feel that there is no real obstacle to the inevitable happy
ending, and that the curtain might just as well fall in the middle of
the first act as at the end of the third. Comedies abound (though they
reach the stage only by accident) in which the obstacle between Corydon
and Phyllis, between Lord Edwin and Lady Angelina, is not even a defect
or peculiarity of character, but simply some trumpery
misunderstanding[2] which can be kep