D. Julian. What! More?
Ernest. Tell me what is the great dramatic spring?
D. Julian. My dear fellow, I don't exactly know what you mean by a dramatic spring. All I can tell you is that I have not the slightest interest in plays where love does not preponderate—above all unfortunate love, for I have enough of happy love at home.
Ernest. Good, very good! Then in my play there can be little or no love.
D. Julian. So much the worse. Though I know nothing of your play, I suspect it will interest nobody.
Ernest. So I have been telling you. Nevertheless, it is possible to put in a little love,—and jealousy too.
D. Julian. Ah, then, with an interesting intrigue skilfully developed, and some effective situations
Ernest. No, nothing of the sort. It will be all simple, ordinary, almost vulgar … so that the drama will not have any external action. The drama evolves within the personages: it advances slowly: to-day takes hold of a thought, to-morrow of a heart-beat, little by little, undermines the will.
D. Julian. But who understands all this? How are these interior ravages manifested? Who recounts them to the audience? In what way are they evident? Must we spend a whole evening hunting for a glance, a sigh, a gesture, a single word? My dear boy, this is not amusement. To cast us into such depths is to hurl us upon philosophy.
Ernest. You but echo my own thought.
D. Julian. I have no wish to discourage you. You best know what you are about—there. Though the play seems rather colourless, heavy, uninteresting, perhaps if the dénoûment is sensational—and the explosion—eh?
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