Lady S. Not yet.
Here on your stage we two must die together—
An ever famous tragedy of art
In this uncouth commercial age of ours.
I hear it still: "If Warwick Groom plays Troilus."
He cannot play it now—poor Warwick Groom!
Ambiguous poison in that "if"; but death
Will end all ambiguity. Tristram, drink.
Sir T. Your eyes are wandering, pale and beggarly;
Your voice is phantom-like, far off and chill:
Martha, you have gone mad.
Lady S. We both were mad;
But I am sane at last: I cannot live.
Be sane, and drink.
Sir T. Not here, not now, not ever.
Lady S. Not? But defeat is here, is everywhere;
Behind the scenes, in front, and in our hearts.
You promised me a hundred thousand times
You never would survive defeat.
Sir T. We loved
Each other then; and were you now to say,
"If failure rings the curtain down to-night,
"Let us two, having loved each other well,
"Having discharged ourselves of all our love,
"Die in each other's arms", I should assent;
Forget these years of dull estrangement; snatch
You off to Venice or Palermo; end
Defeat and triumph, and the world and time
In one superb and golden aftermath,
A full-eared harvest-moon of winnowed love.
Lady S. Your words are like a smoky gust of heat
Across a wilderness of snow! Shame! shame!
Sir T. I cannot love where I am not beloved,
And will not die to please an unloved wife.
Lady S. But I do love you, Tristram! Love you? Oh,
Did I not give you all the love I had?
I love you now with something more than love;
And never shall I rest until my dust,
Cold, senseless, passionless, inanimate,
Divinely rotted into virgin mould,
Is mixed with yours to all eternity.
Sir T. A deadly love—that has the ring of hate!