St. J. Her life will be most beautiful: refined
By love—by lust that purifies the soul
More certainly than any chastisement;
Disordered by the loss of all her children—
A doom that makes the deeds done in the flesh
Pernicious to the mind, to fancy noisome;
She shall become a perfect bride of Heaven—
Bride of the Universe.
Sir T. Gervase—how strange!
You counsel separation?
St. J. Before the law;
Before the Universe, divorce.
Sir T. Again,
The Universe!
St. J. News that can wait a while.
Sir T. And I should be the minister of art,
Unfettered by a single private tie,
A public votary. Yes; but how? the means?
Who will provide for Martha? And myself!
Who will provide for me? The day we part,
My creditors and hers—they ruin us.
St. J. And that is grave; yet may be overcome.
Sir T. But what a sordid hell we welter in!
Art is inhuman, Gervase.
St. J. Yes, all art,
And all religion and the life of man:
Inhuman, Tristram. Is it news to you?
Sir T. Then is there no humanity in men?