St. J. [Having read the second letter] If this is met you have a breathing-space?
St. J. Not disinterested alone: Infinite things to talk of! First of all, Why do you set so small a price on life? You once were proud of your vocation, knew The meaning of the theatre, felt its wide Domain.
Sir T. Yes, but I know it now too well, Even as I know my wife and Warwick Groom. Let me not know you well, Gervase, not well: Show me the best in minims and in grams, But hide the bulk and flood in clouds of dawn, In silvery mists, the nimbus and the shrine Of air and sky: the soul should not be seen, Though mine be naked now.
St. J. You suffer, Tristram. Naked your soul is, wounded----
Sir T. Flayed alive! Oh, Gervase, what a spirit of delight, Of fragrant hope, of fervent faith in men, I brought incarnate to the theatre!
St. J. Full of vocation, I remember you: Chiefly in Wytham Wood one afternoon----
Sir T. Ah, how we beat our academic wings In woods, on hilltops, longing for the world And to take up our destiny! It took Me up, and laid me down, and racked and flayed With unremitting care.
St. J. You held the stage To be the true adventure of the times. The earth was known, you said: if magic isles, Orchards of Hesperus; or queens asleep For centuries; or that supreme emprise, The middle passage of the maze of streams, Acheron, Phlegethon, Cocytus, Styx, And the return alive from Dis's hall Through groves of poplar, whispered madnesses, Obsequious willows, cries, the wild lament Of old companions, and the doleful shriek Of her, the best-belov'd, to utter woe Abandoned: had such high renown been still Achievable, then had you hoisted sail And led the way; but since the whole sad world Was now become mere shop and market-place, The stage remained the one way of escape, The one adventure for the adventurous.
Sir T. I thought so; I believed so. But I found The most ignoble strife; a jug of asps, Where envy, vanity, avarice, wanton spite Torment and are tormented; with such a gloss Of tolerance and of fellowship--humour, tears, That soothe the grit of misery into pearl!
St. J. Men cross to fortune on the stepping-stones Of ruined rivals; matter exploits us so; But which is better off, who triumphs most, The ruined or the ruiner? That's reserved.