_King Richard._ Give me the _Olivia._ Why, what would you?

crown.--Here cousin, seize the crown; _Viola._ Make me a willow Here, cousin, cabin at your gate, On this side my hand, and on And call upon my soul within the that side thine. house; Now is this golden crown like a Write loyal cantons of contemned deep well love That owes two buckets, filling And sing them loud even in the one another, dead of night; The emptier ever dancing in the Halloo your name to the air, reverberate hills The other down, unseen, and And make the babbling gossip of full of water. the air That bucket down and full of Cry out "Olivia!" O, you should tears am I, not rest Drinking my griefs, whilst you Between the elements of air and mount up on high, earth, But should pity me!

_Bolingbroke._ I thought you had been willing to resign. _Olivia._ You might do much[68]

_King Richard._ My crown I am; but still my griefs are mine.

You may my glories and my state depose, But not my griefs; still I am king of those.[67]

The second extract is the more effective because the onward sweep of the emotion of the scene reveals beauty as it moves, but the first shows King Richard checking the course of his natural emotion in order suavely and perfectly to develop his comparison. Of course there is beauty in the first extract, but it is not genuine dramatic beauty. Why does one find the following pa.s.sage from _The Importance of Being Earnest_ (Act I), delightful as it is, less fine than the pa.s.sage from _The Way of the World_ (Act II, Scene 5)?

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST

_Lady Bracknell._ (_Sitting down._) You can take a seat, Mr. Worthing.

(_Looks in her pocket for notebook and pencil._)

_Jack._ Thank you, Lady Bracknell, I prefer standing.

_Lady Bracknell._ (_Pencil and notebook in hand._) I feel bound to tell you that you are not down on my list of eligible young men, although I have the same list as the dear d.u.c.h.ess of Bolton has. We work together, in fact. However, I am quite ready to enter your name, should your answers be what a really affectionate mother requires. Do you smoke?

_Jack._ Well, yes, I must admit I smoke.

_Lady Bracknell._ I am glad to hear it. A man should always have an occupation of some kind. There are far too many idle men in London as it is. How old are you?

_Jack._ Twenty-nine.

_Lady Bracknell._ A very good age to be married at. I have always been of opinion that a man who desires to get married should know either everything or nothing. Which do you know?

_Jack._ (_After some hesitation._) I know nothing, Lady Bracknell.

_Lady Bracknell._ I am pleased to hear it. I do not approve of anything that tempers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper cla.s.ses, and probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square. What is your income?

_Jack._ Between seven and eight thousand a year.

_Lady Bracknell._ (_Makes a note in her book._) In land or investments?

_Jack._ In investments, chiefly.

_Lady Bracknell._ That is satisfactory. What between the duties expected of one during one's lifetime, and the duties exacted from one after one's death, land has ceased to be either a profit or a pleasure. It gives one position and prevents one from keeping it up.

That's all that can be said about land.

_Jack._ I have a country house with some land, of course, attached to it, about fifteen hundred acres, I believe; but I don't depend on that for my income. In fact, as far as I can make out, the poachers are the only people who are making anything out of it.

_Lady Bracknell._ A country house! How many bedrooms? Well, that point can be cleared up afterwards. You have a town house, I hope? A girl with a simple unspoiled nature, like Gwendolen, could hardly be expected to reside in the country.

_Jack._ Well, I own a house in Belgrave Square, but it is let by the year to Lady Bloxham. Of course, I can get it back whenever I like, at six months' notice.

_Lady Bracknell._ Lady Bloxham? I don't know her.

_Jack._ Oh, she goes about very little. She is a lady considerably advanced in years.

_Lady Bracknell._ Ah, nowadays that is no guarantee of respectability of character. What number in Belgrave Square?

_Jack._ 149.

_Lady Bracknell._ (_Shaking her head._) The unfashionable side. I thought there was something. However, that could easily be altered.

_Jack_. Do you mean the fashion or the side?

_Lady Bracknell._ (_Sternly_.) Both, if necessary, I presume. What are your politics?

_Jack._ Well, I'm afraid I really have none. I am a Liberal Unionist.

_Lady Bracknell._ Oh, they count as Tories. They dine with us. Or come in the evening, at any rate. Now to minor matters. Are your parents living?

_Jack._ I have lost both my parents.

_Lady Bracknell._ Both?--That seems like carelessness. Who was your father? He was evidently a man of some wealth. Was he born in what the Radical papers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of the aristocracy?

_Jack._ I'm afraid I really don't know. The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I said I had lost my parents. It would be nearer the truth to say that my parents seem to have lost me--I don't actually know who I am by birth. I was--well, I was found.

_Lady Bracknell._ Found!

_Jack._ The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very charitable and kindly disposition, found me and gave me the name of Worthing, because he happened to have a first-cla.s.s ticket for Worthing at the time. Worthing is a place in Suss.e.x. It is a seaside resort.

_Lady Bracknell._ Where did the gentleman who had a first-cla.s.s ticket for this seaside resort find you?

_Jack._ (_Gravely._) In a hand-bag.

_Lady Bracknell._ A hand-bag!

_Jack._ (_Very seriously._) Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a hand-bag--a somewhat large, black leather hand-bag, with handles to it--an ordinary hand-bag in fact.

_Lady Bracknell._ In what locality did this Mr. James, or Thomas, Cardew come across this ordinary hand-bag?

_Jack._ In the cloak-room at the Victoria Station. It was given to him in mistake for his own.

_Lady Bracknell._ The cloak-room at Victoria Station?

_Jack._ Yes, the Brighton line.

_Lady Bracknell._ The line is immaterial. Mr. Worthing, I confess I feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. To be born, or at any rate, bred in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that remind one of the worst excesses of the French Revolution. And I presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to? As for the particular locality in which the hand-bag was found, a cloak-room at a railway station might serve to conceal a social indiscretion--has probably, indeed, been used for that purpose before now--but it could hardly be regarded as an a.s.sured basis for a recognized position in good society.

_Jack._ May I ask you then what you would advise me to do? I need hardly say I would do anything in the world to ensure Gwendolen's happiness.

_Lady Bracknell._ I would strongly advise you, Mr. Worthing, to try and acquire some relations as soon as possible, and to make a definite effort to produce at any rate one parent, of either s.e.x, before the season is quite over.

_Jack._ Well, I don't see how I could possibly manage to do that. I can produce the hand-bag at any moment. It is in my dressing-room at home. I really think that should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.

_Lady Bracknell._ Me, sir! What has it to do with me? You can hardly imagine that I and Lord Bracknell would dream of allowing our only daughter--a girl brought up with the utmost care--to marry into a cloak-room, and form an alliance with a parcel? Good morning, Mr.

Worthing!