Now I hope that, however slightly the conversations in the plays which follow may move the dramatic critic, he will at least be disturbed by this little dialogue. All of us who are interested in the theatre are accustomed to read, and sometimes to make, ridiculous accusations against the Theatrical Manager. We condemn the mercenary fellow because he will not risk a loss of two or three thousand pounds on the intellectual masterpiece of a promising young dramatist, preferring to put on some contemptible but popular rubbish which is certain to fill his theatre. But now we see that the dramatic critic, that stern upholder of the best interests of the British Drama, will not himself risk six shillings (and perhaps two or three hours of his time) in order to read the intellectual masterpiece of the promising young dramatist, and so to be able to tell us with authority whether the Manager really _is_ refusing masterpieces or no. He will not risk six shillings in order to encourage that promising young dramatist--discouraged enough already, poor devil, in his hopes of fame and fortune--by telling him that he _is_ right, and that his plays are worth something, or (alternatively) to prevent him from wasting any more of his youth upon an art-form to which he is not suited. No, he will not risk his shillings; but he will write an important (and, let us hope, well-rewarded) article, informing us that the British Drama is going to the dogs, and that no promising young dramatist is ever given a fair chance. Absurd, isn't it? Let us consider this young dramatist for a moment, and ask ourselves why he goes on writing his masterpieces. I give three reasons--in their order of importance. (1) The pleasure of writing; or, more accurately, the hell of not writing. He gets this anyhow. (2) The appreciation of his peers; his hope of immortality; the criticism of the experts; fame, publicity, notoriety, swank, _réclame_--call it what you will. But it is obvious that he cannot have it unless the masterpiece is given to the world, either by manager or publisher. (3) Money. If the masterpiece is published only, very little; if produced, possibly a great deal. As I say, he gets his first reward anyhow. But let us be honest with ourselves. How many of us would write our masterpieces on a desert island, with no possibility of being rescued? Well, perhaps all of us; for we should feel that, even if not rescued ourselves, our manuscripts--written on bark with a burnt stick--clutched in a skeleton hand--might be recovered later by some literary sea-captain. (As it might be, Conrad.) But how many of us would write masterpieces if we had to burn them immediately afterwards, or if we were alone upon the world, the last survivors of a new flood? Could we bear to write? Could we bear not to write? It is not fair to ask us. But we can admit this much without reserve; it is the second reward which tears at us, and, lacking it, we should lose courage.