St. J. Unjust! Consideration, care, An artist's terror; but mastery of his work.
Hildreth. Pardon, my lord. I love him, and I know. The definite purpose, the consummate skill That made his management a royal game Have left him; and he stumbles to the goal, Which once he reached unerring and direct As wireless news or planetary light.
St. J. Fine of you, Hildreth! But I think the play Replies for all Sir Tristram's hesitance.
Hildreth. Partly, my lord: the play is difficult.
Hildreth. None of us know, my lord. I dread mischance.
Hildreth. The vaguest: at his house, no word of him; And at his club, no word.
St. J. That means no more Than this: he was not home nor at his club.
Hildreth. Yes, but, my lord, the first night of a play! Not in the history of the theatre----
Sir T. Gervase! High On Heaven's dark brow we'll hang your name to-night. [Looking over the letters.] Bills: invitations. Why should people charge Each other for the things they need; and why Should one man want to meet another man? We know what men are. In a million, one May have the right to meet his fellows--No; Not one in twenty millions! Men deserve Each other's scorn.--There's nothing, Hildreth, nothing.
Sir T. Leave us, Hildreth. You shall command me when the curtain falls. You please me always, Hildreth.
St. J. So distraught! You're like a woman, Tristram.
Sir T. A woman? True: Old men are like old women. Don't we know How age makes neuters of us? All alike Unhappy; cold and bloodless, curst and shrill!
St. J. I understand! The black rings round your eyes-- Court mourning for a day of passion, spent In some shameless bosom! Once you could drain The fount of energy as genial men Will do, may do; but when the world appears Thereafter like a desolate seaboard stripped At ebb of tide, men must begin to spare Their native power: the nerves are perilous things To sport with: palsy a price exorbitant For passing pleasure: to adventure youth Throughout one's life--why, Tristram, that's To burn the candle in the middle too!
Sir T. I burnt A torch to-day to Aphrodite: yes; And burnt it out: the more fool I; for love Should leave a gathering coal. I know, I know! But fear not you; my unclogged intellect Will fling the prophet's part I play to-night Across the footlights like a shower of stars, Of falling stars.