Rouse. The overture, My lord. [Disappears.]
St. J. I come, I come.--Strange fear perturbs Me suddenly.
Sir T. But that's a certain sign Of perfect power. The house will welcome you: We love frank courage still.
St. J. Courage? What courage? Having some gift of oratory, I Deliver my own prologue. Courage once Took heart in men when those who thought and spake Were racked and roasted: this attempt Exacts effrontery: not courage.
Sir T. Say Effrontery: you do it; it is yours; A piece of you: accept it; love it therefore.
St. J. A shamefulness attends this thing. The house Will hiss me, Tristram.
Sir T. No; your fervid voice Will mould and temper to delight the crude Anticipation of the audience. Speak Like one inspired; speak, Gervase, like yourself.
[As Sir Tristram crosses to his Dressing-room Europa Troop enters, dressed for her part.]
Europa. Tristram! Tristram! See How beautiful I am! Not dressed yet! Fie! Kiss me; my bosom. Are you tired of me? I pout then! Dear, to-day: so good you were That I can think of nothing in the world But to be yours; and you must come to-night! My love is inexhaustible: as like Irradiant metal that scatters momently Its multitudinous lustre, as summer-time Is like the month of June: the more it spends The more it has to spend.
[Opens the door of the Business-room and turns up the light.]
And, dear, I need Some money; men with bills molested me As I came up the stairs; the attendants here Relax their duties sadly: I believe They're not above a bribe.
[Sir Tristram closes the door of his Dressing-room, and takes from the secret drawer in the Business-room some bank-notes, which he hands to Europa.]
Sir T. The whole! You've had it all. This was a treacherous hoard, And rightly spent on you. In any way Of honest business, or dishonest art, It had been worse than lost, like fairy gold That turns to shreds of flint when daylight kills Its phantom glory. It was wisely spent. We have obliged each other.
[Sir Tristram enters his Dressing-room, and speaks from it unseen.]
Europa. How hard you are! Harder than me. But you will come to-night?
Sir T. Perhaps. You know this splendid play will fail.
Europa. Our parts will save it, Tristram; you and I. What chiming prattle do we love to hear-- "The play is nothing; but the acting? Ah, "Sir Tristram! Oh, Europa!" Stupid plays Are what we want, with skeletons to drape In flesh and blood of us. You'll come to-night?