ABSTRACT
I have been accused of wantonly overrating Mr Oscar Wilde because I said that his two plays stood alone on the highest plane of modern English drama. That remark, I believe, was absolutely true (so far as there can be any absolute truth in criticism) at the time when it was made, more than a month ago. Now, Mr Pinero’s tragedy stands alone on a still higher plane; but Lady Windermere’s Fan and A Woman of No Importance surely rank as far above The Profligate and Lady Bountiful, The Dancing Girl and The Crusaders, as they rank below The Second Mrs Tanqueray. ‘Mr Wilde’s pyrotechnic wit,’I said at the same time, ‘is one of the defects of his qualities-a defect which he will one day conquer when he begins to take himself seriously as a dramatic artist. At present he approaches his calling cynically;’ and I went on to remark that there was only one scene in his Haymarket play in which he did his talent full justice. Is this extravagant eulogy? Is it not precisely because he has taken himself seriously as a dramatic artist that Mr Pinero has so far outstripped Mr Wilde in the present instance? It is none the less true that Mr Wilde is a writer, an écrivain, of the first rank. He has written things of the most exquisite quality both in verse and prose (have you read his delightful fairy-tales?), and in one or two masterly scenes and a hundred minor touches he has proved himself possessed of dramatic instinct in its highest potency. He has certainly the talent, if he has but the will, the character, to raise his work to the highest possible plane. Hitherto he has done little more than trifle gracefully with his art; but the time for trifling is past.
