tand the beauties," and so on.
It is thus that the good-natured public is frequently imposed on, in
painting, in sculpture, in music, by certain schools and celebrities. It
does not dare to protest. But with regard to drama and comedy the
situation is altered. The public is an interested party to the
proceedings and appears, so to speak, for the prosecution in the case.

The language that we use in our play is the language used by the
spectators every day; the sentiments that we depict are theirs; the
persons whom we set to acting are the spectators themselves in instantly
recognized passions and familiar situations. No preparatory studies are
necessary; no initiation in a studio or school is indispensable; eyes to
see, ears to hear--that's all they need. The moment we depart, I will
not say from the truth, but from what they think is truth, they stop
listening. For in the theater, as in life, of which the theater is the
reflexion, there are two kinds of truth; first, the absolute truth,
which always in the end prevails, and secondly, if not the false, at
least the superficial truth, which consists of customs, manners, social
conventions; the uncompromising truth which revolts, and the pliant
truth which yields to human weakness; in short, the truth of Alceste and
that of Philinte.

It is only by making every kind of concession to the second that we can
succeed in ending with the first. The spectators, like all
sovereigns--like kings, nations, and women--do not like to be told the
truth, all the truth. Let me add quickly that they have an excuse, which
is that they do not know the truth;--they have rarely been told it. They
therefore wish to be flattered, pitied, consoled, taken away from their
preoccupations and their worries, which are nearly all due to ignorance,
but which they consider the greatest and most unmerited to be found
anywhere, because their own.

This is not all; by a curious optical effect, the spectators always see
themselves in the personages who are good, tender, generous, heroic whom
we place on the boards; and in the personages who are vicious or
ridiculous they never see anyone but their neighbors. How can you expect
then that the truth we tell them can do them any good?

But I see that I am not answering your question at all.

You ask me to tell you how a play is made, and I tell you, or rather I
try to tell you, what must be put into it.

Well, my dear friend, if you want me to be quite fr