n. Art does not consist in
expanding things. Art consists of cutting things down, as I cut down
with a pair of scissors my very ugly figures of St. George and the
Dragon. Plato, who liked definite ideas, would like my cardboard dragon;
for though the creature has few other artistic merits he is at least
dragonish. The modern philosopher, who likes infinity, is quite welcome
to a sheet of the plain cardboard. The most artistic thing about the
theatrical art is the fact that the spectator looks at the whole thing
through a window. This is true even of theatres inferior to my own; even
at the Court Theatre or His Majesty's you are looking through a window;
an unusually large window. But the advantage of the small theatre
exactly is that you are looking through a small window. Has not every
one noticed how sweet and startling any landscape looks when seen
through an arch? This strong, square shape, this shutting off of
everything else is not only an assistance to beauty; it is the essential
of beauty. The most beautiful part of every picture is the frame.

This especially is true of the toy theatre; that, by reducing the scale
of events it can introduce much larger events. Because it is small it
could easily represent the earthquake in Jamaica. Because it is small it
could easily represent the Day of Judgment. Exactly in so far as it is
limited, so far it could play easily with falling cities or with falling
stars. Meanwhile the big theatres are obliged to be economical because
they are big. When we have understood this fact we shall have understood
something of the reason why the world has always been first inspired by
small nationalities. The vast Greek philosophy could fit easier into
the small city of Athens than into the immense Empire of Persia. In the
narrow streets of Florence Dante felt that there was room for Purgatory
and Heaven and Hell. He would have been stifled by the British Empire.
Great empires are necessarily prosaic; for it is beyond human power to
act a great poem upon so great a scale. You can only represent very big
ideas in very small spaces. My toy theatre is as philosophical as the
drama of Athens.

XXIV. A Tragedy of Twopence

My relations with the readers of this page have been long and pleasant,
but--perhaps for that very reason--I feel that the time has come when I
ought to confess the one great crime of my life. It happened a long time
ago; but it is not uncommon for a belated burst of