Upon my word I scarcely know. _Do_ we know each other, Vane?
Vane.
My dear Fitzgerald, when will you learn that you can never know me?
(_Crosses to picture._)
Fitzgerald.
Then, my dear Vane, I must learn to be resigned. (_Fitzgerald turns
away, and takes up Gyp. Vane looks at the picture._) What's this?
"Autour du Marriage," eh? (_Opens book, and reads, then lies on
sofa, still reading._)
Vane.
Ah, the Brynhild! My dear Denham, why _will_ you do such things?
Denham.
What have I done?
Vane.
Not what you have tried to do--to paint an epic picture.
Denham.
Is that wrong?
Vane.
Worse than wrong; it is a _betise_. (_Comes to fire, and stands with
his back to it._) You might as well try to write a long poem. Such
things are certainly _long_, and as certainly not _poems_. That huge
thing is not a picture.
Denham.
Ah, you write quatrains. Should no poem exceed four lines?
Vane.
Not only should not, but in our present state of development,
_cannot_. The quatrain is the analogue of the Greek gem, the
_consummate_ flower of the national art of the period. It will take
at _least_ a century to perfect and exhaust it.
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