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An adult spectator has greater command over his facial expressions, and it is perhaps for that very reason that fictitiously, that is, without a real cause or real action, he even more intensely lives through the entire gamut of noble and heroic feelings presented by the drama, or gives free rein in his imagination to the base and even criminal inclinations of his nature, the feelings he experiences being real, though his complicity in the crimes committed on the stage is fictitious.
What interested me most in this argumentation was the element of “fictitiousness.”
Thus art (so far in the form of theatre) enables man through co-experience fictitiously to perform heroic actions, fictitiously to experience great emotions, fictitiously to feel himself a hero like Franz Moor, to rid himself of base instincts with the assistance of Karl Moor, to regard himself as a sage like Faust, to feel inspired by God like Joan of Arc, to be an ardent lover like Romeo, to be a patriot like Count de Rizoor, to see his doubts dissipated by Kareno, Brand, Rosmer or Hamlet.
More. The best thing about it was that these fictitious actions brought the spectator real satisfaction.
Thus after seeing Verhaeren's Les aubes he feels he is a hero.
After seeing Calderon's El principe constante he feels he is a martyr.
After seeing Schiller's Kabale und Liebe he is overwhelmed by righteousness and self-pity.
“But this is horrible!” I shuddered as I was crossing Trubnaya Square (or was it Sretenskiye Gates?).
What infernal mechanics governed this sacred art whose votary I had become?
That was mere than a lie!
That was more than deceit!
That was downright dangerous.
Horribly, unspeakably dangerous.
Only think: why strive for reality, if for a small sum of money you can satisfy yourself in your imagination without moving from your comfortable theatre seat?
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