fected by the "optique du théâtre," they are
composed in a certain "key" which seeks
to give a harmonious impression, but which
conveys frankly semblance and not reality.
The craving for "real" effects upon the stage
is anti-æesthetic, like those gladiatorial shows
where persons were actually killed. I once
saw an unskilful fencer, acting the part of
Romeo, really wound Tybalt: the effect was
lifelike, beyond question, but it was shocking.

From this doctrine of æsthetic semblance
or "appearance" many thinkers have drawn
the conclusion that the pleasures afforded by
art must in their very nature be disinterested
and sharable. Disinterested, because they
consist so largely in delighted contemplation
merely. Women on the stage, said Coquelin,
should afford to the spectator "a theatrical
pleasure only, and not the pleasure of a lover."
Compare with this the sprightly egotism of
the lyric poet's

"If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?"

A certain aloofness is often felt to char-
acterize great art: it is perceived in the
austerity and reserve of the Psyche of Naples
and the Venus of Melos:

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