Sir T. Deny the roundness of a woman's limbs, Deny the sexes and that blood is red! Well, I deny it, since I have no proof. What next?
St. J. A simple thing. I long have thought That marriages should end when love is dead-- On either side: the marriage vow should be "Till love is dead," not "till death do us part"; And sacrament might end it solemnly, As it began. The Church is backward there: Its grip might fasten on the world again If once divorce became a sacrament.
St. J. Do you remember how I pled Against your marriage?
St. J. Judged My hidden purpose snobbish I suppose?
Sir T. I thought there underlay your argument A dread of misalliance.
St. J. Wrong: my plea Was candid. I maintained and still maintain The artist should be celibate; a priest Exempt from human ties.
Sir T. I think so too; Though when I married Martha I desired Experience of the noble cares of life, As the true discipline and academe Of art. How foolish! how insane! for art Is like religion, only undefiled In perfect freedom and abandonment.
St. J. You hang upon a verge of perilous truth: Religion is the very art of art. But that can wait: I have much to say on that.-- I hold it deadly sin, if anything Is to be christened sin, for you and her To live together longer, love being dead. I counsel you to leave her; and I myself, Who married you, will privately pronounce A precept of divorce.
St. J. Her life will be most beautiful: refined By love--by lust that purifies the soul More certainly than any chastisement; Disordered by the loss of all her children-- A doom that makes the deeds done in the flesh Pernicious to the mind, to fancy noisome; She shall become a perfect bride of Heaven-- Bride of the Universe.
Sir T. Gervase--how strange! You counsel separation?
St. J. Before the law; Before the Universe, divorce.
Sir T. And I should be the minister of art, Unfettered by a single private tie, A public votary. Yes; but how? the means? Who will provide for Martha? And myself! Who will provide for me? The day we part, My creditors and hers--they ruin us.
St. J. And that is grave; yet may be overcome.
Sir T. But what a sordid hell we welter in! Art is inhuman, Gervase.
St. J. Yes, all art, And all religion and the life of man: Inhuman, Tristram. Is it news to you?