ABSTRACT
Believe me, it is with no ironic intention that I declare Mr. Oscar Wilde to have ‘found himself’, at last, as an artist in sheer nonsense. There has been good nonsense in his previous stage-work, but it failed to give unalloyed pleasure, either because it adopted serious postures or was out of harmony with an environment of seriousness. In his farce at the St. James’s-Mr. Archer, I see, thinks the word ‘farce’ derogatory here; but why? We call The Wasps and Le Médecin malgré Lui farces-in his farce, then, The Importance of Being Earnest, there is no discordant note of seriousness. It is of nonsense all compact, and better nonsense, I think, our stage has not seen. This is not to be wondered at; Mr. Wilde has the advantage, an immense advantage for any artificer of the ludicrous, of being the last comer. We often hear protests raised against the view that art ‘progresses’; art is, people say, it is a thing immovable, indeed, the only thing:—
Tout passe. Hart robuste Seul a l’éternité, Le buste Survit à la cité.1
