St. J. A simple thing. I long have thought
That marriages should end when love is dead—
On either side: the marriage vow should be
"Till love is dead," not "till death do us part";
And sacrament might end it solemnly,
As it began. The Church is backward there:
Its grip might fasten on the world again
If once divorce became a sacrament.
Sir T. Divorce?
St. J. Do you remember how I pled
Against your marriage?
Sir T. I remember.
St. J. Judged
My hidden purpose snobbish I suppose?
Sir T. I thought there underlay your argument
A dread of misalliance.
St. J. Wrong: my plea
Was candid. I maintained and still maintain
The artist should be celibate; a priest
Exempt from human ties.
Sir T. I think so too;
Though when I married Martha I desired
Experience of the noble cares of life,
As the true discipline and academe
Of art. How foolish! how insane! for art
Is like religion, only undefiled
In perfect freedom and abandonment.
St. J. You hang upon a verge of perilous truth:
Religion is the very art of art.
But that can wait: I have much to say on that.—
I hold it deadly sin, if anything
Is to be christened sin, for you and her
To live together longer, love being dead.
I counsel you to leave her; and I myself,
Who married you, will privately pronounce
A precept of divorce.
Sir T. But Martha's fate?