There are scarcely two pages on capital punishment. It is all sensations.

THE PHILOSOPHER. There he is wrong. The subject deserves discussion. A drama, a novel, proves nothing. Moreover, I have read the book, and it is very bad.

THE POET. It is detestable! Is that art? It is going beyond bounds; it is speaking out one’s mind too freely? Then, this criminal, if we only knew about him! But no. What did he do? We have no idea. Perhaps he was a very bad fellow. One should not rouse interest in one whom we do not know about.

THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. One has no right to make his reader suffer physically. When I see a tragedy, I expect a murder. Well, I am not affected. But this novel makes your hair stand on end and your flesh creep. It gives you bad dreams. I spent two days in bed for having read it.

THE PHILOSOPHER. Besides, the book is cold, premeditated.

THE POET. The book! The book!

THE PHILOSOPHER. Yes. And as you have just remarked, sir, true art does not consist in that sort of thing. I am not interested in an abstraction, a pure entity. I do not find a personality equal to mine. And then the style is neither simple nor clear. It is archaic. That was what you said, was it not?

THE POET. No doubt, no doubt. We must avoid personalities.

THE PHILOSOPHER. The prisoner is not interesting.

THE POET. How could he be? He has committed a crime, and feels no remorse. I would make him just the opposite.