as murder;
that its motive was a sacrilegious robbery--the theft of a diamond
cross from the body of a woman lying dead in a church; that the man
was a drink-besotted ruffian; that the woman was his illicit partner;
that the atmosphere was assuredly brutal. Material eyes saw all this.
Material senses reasoned that, given all these qualities, such a play
must be horrible, and unduly strenuous. But intuition set all this
reasoning awry. You see, intuition doesn't reason; it _knows_. It is
better to know than to reason. Get a dozen people to prove to you that
"A Light from St. Agnes" was a dismal and unnecessary tragedy. Oh,
they might be able to do it. Then go and see it, and you will
understand precisely what I am driving at.

Plays that appeal to intuition are the most wonderful offerings that
the theater can make. Nothing can stay their effect; nobody can
successfully argue against them. Rare indeed they are. When some
playwright, as the result of a genuine emotion, makes a drama, in the
sheer delight of that emotion, and with a disregard for
conventionality, and no hope of box-office approval--then you get a
work of art. Incidentally, I may remark that such a work of art is so
irresistible that it literally forces the box office to tinkle. It
would be a pity if it didn't.

The scene of "A Light from St. Agnes" is laid in a Louisiana village
called Bon Hilaire. _Michel_ and _Toinette_ occupy a rude hut, in the
vicinity of St. Agnes' Church. The light from the church sometimes
irradiates the sordid, loathsome room. In fact, _Toinette_ places her
couch in such a position that the light may shine upon her eyes, and
awaken her in time to call _Michel_, her befuddled partner.

A woman who has tried to reform the lawless life of this section of
Louisiana has died. Her body lies in the church. _Toinette_ and
_Michel_ have both been cynically amused, in their reckless way, at
her efforts, unavailing, to reform them. And she is dead! _Father
Bertrand_ visits _Toinette_, and tells her this. The peasant laughs.
The priest gives her a crucifix that the woman left for her, and its
influence--though the playwright is far too subtle even to suggest
this--is the "moral" of the little play for those who want their i's
dotted and their t's crossed.

The drama moves quickly. The drama is tragedy. _Michel_ returns, more
hopelessly intoxicated than ever. She lies on the rude couch, seeking
sleep. He talks, as he plies himself with dri