Sir T. No; it's war:
Behind, the great idea; here, in front,
The petty detail and order of the night.
Remember your prediction: You believe
Terrific war will burst the chrysalis,
The Christendom that hangs in filthy rags
About the eager soul already winged
With crimson plumes and violet, green and gold,
Psyche at last, pure Matter of itself,
Imagination, free of the Universe.
With words and shows equipped we wage great war,
And here to-night deliver battle. Temple!
[Enter Temple from the Dressing-room.]
Wine,
Heroic brandy, or the water of life? …
Champagne for me…. Nothing? To toast the play!
St. J. That's not my mood at all!
Sir T. Nor is it mine!
The shimmering surface of the player's life
Is all he flaunts when most his soul is stirred.
He turns the silver lining to the world;
The tempest and the darkness where he breeds
His high ostents and subtleties of art
Are hidden. Who can tell what tragic mirth
May occupy the other side of the moon?
St. J. Fill up for me too, Temple! I forget
In this erect and seminal thought of mine
That men are many-sided. I toast the war
Our play proclaims to-night.
[Temple, having filled two tumblers with champagne, returns to the
Dressing-room. Sir Tristram and St. James's drink.]
Sir T. The war of wars!
St. J. A century, a millennium of war
Against the sin and sacro-sanctity
That holds the world in thrall and hides from man
His true material being.
[Rouse appears at the door of the Reception-room.]