The Theatrocrat: A Tragic Play of Church and Stage

by John Davidson

Sir T. Yes, yes; but this? Why this? You make
My theatre a pothouse.

Groom. Pothouse? [Drinks] Why,
Your theatre's well enough to drink in, Knight.
Knight? Vain, deluded, damned theatrocrat!

Sir T. What, Warwick! What!

Groom. An actor knighted! Once
The actor was an artist here in England.
When England in Queen Bess's time became
A world above the world, and felt itself
Adult and masculine, then lightly came
The actor and the act, outside the state,
Authentic and alone.

Sir T. Enough of that!
We know your fantasies. Will you attempt
The part; or are you spoiled for this time, Warwick?

Groom. I'll speak this matter out. When plays were damned
By churchmen, and the player a citizen
Of rascaldom on sufferance living only,
Great was the stage, a lover of all life,
The friend of sinners and the home of sin,
A city of refuge for humanity
Escaping from religion and the curses
Of the law; for church and stage are deadly foes;
They can be strong only in enmity;
And both were shrines of art when either shunned
The other, or met in battle: now that they mix,
Illicit lovers and against the lust
Of nature, sterile hybrids mock their couch;
And soon the lofty strain of either ends
In mere abortion. When the monarch set
The lethal signet on the theatre
Of gross respectability, knighting you,
Sir Tristram, and other players unfortunate,
Ranking you in the state with grocers, brewers,
Distillers, lawyers, painters, aldermen,
He dealt a double blow at church and stage
And both are bleeding from the wound.

Sir T. Why this
To me—me specially?

Groom. Because you haunt
The clergy, and the clergy fawn on you,
Singling you out: the Bishop of St. James's
Is fast your friend: and nonconformists—Hell!
Have sung your praise in public. I maintain
The stage must stand alone like all things great,
Unspotted of the church, the state, the world.

Sir T. You try my patience. This is so—all this,
And endless matter to a like intent.

Groom. But who has grasped the meaning? who perceives
That these luxurious theatres of ours
Are only living graves—the ornate tomb
Of drama?