“Shakespeare,” began Blenheim; but he was interrupted by Mrs. Duncan who cried out:—
“I wish he were alive now and would write me a part, a real woman’s part. The women have so little to do in Shakespeare’s plays. There’s Juliet; but one can’t play Juliet till one’s forty, and then one’s too old to look fourteen. There’s Lady Macbeth; but she’s got nothing to do except walk in her sleep and say, ‘Out, damned spot!’ There were not actresses in his days, and of course it was no use writing a woman’s part for a boy.”
“You should have been born in France,” said Faubourg, “Racine’s women are created for you to play.”
“Ah! you’ve got Sarah,” said Mrs. Duncan, “you don’t want anyone else.”
“I think Racine’s boring,” said Mrs. Lockton, “he’s so artificial.”
“Oh! don’t say that,” said Giles, “Racine is the most exquisite of poets, so sensitive, so acute, and so harmonious.”
“I like Rostand better,” said Mrs. Lockton.
“Rostand!” exclaimed Miss Tring, in disgust, “he writes such bad verses—du caoutchouc—he’s so vulgar.”
“It is true,” said Willmott, “he’s an amateur. He has never written professionally for his bread but only for his pleasure.”
“But in that sense,” said Giles, “God is an amateur.”