Lady S. I came like destiny, Prepared and armed with power and purpose, gained In the forest. But I met your mistress: fate Of worlds and women is shifted by such straws.
Sir T. Back to the forest, then.--What is it, Hildreth?
Hildreth. None. A section seemed at first In tune for ribaldry; but soon his clear Goodwill, the nerve and music of his voice, His gracious looks and speech secured the house. The gallery points his periods with applause; The stalls sit purring like a catshow charmed With extra cream or chin adroitly scratched; And women from the boxes lean and listen Like cows across a gate at milking-time.
Hildreth. Mob at once, well pleased With anything.
Sir T. And well begun's half done! The prologue's over?
Hildreth. No. I meant to note The finish; but Europa Troop despatched Immediate news. She said----
Europa. Too soon, too soon! Oh, Tristram!--Pardon, madam--Applause has whirled St. James's to the skies. He stands entranced, With face uplifted like a seraph, pealing Material music, from his prologue worlds Away. Into the nebula! The house Sits up and holds its breath.
Abbot. Sir Tristram, come! In Heaven's name come! St. James's spreads himself Worse than we ever heard him; miles beyond The limits of the play! He must be stopped!
Abbot. Yes. The Bishop's broken loose, Discoursing Matter like a thunderstorm; A thick brocade and silvery web of rain, With crash of bells and bolts, while through the loom A random shuttle of golden lightning plays-- As Warwick might have said.
Salerne. Amenity To what is happening! "All is Matter, all," The Bishop cried, when from the gallery dropped A question like a bomb, "Hi! What price God?"
Sir T. Olympus felt itself neglected. Well?
Salerne. Then all the blasphemy we've heard him speak Came trolling forth, "The shutters of the mind; "A fire-proof curtain: ghastly cul-de-sac; "A last excuse; sublime taboo; a tip; "A patent medicine: an accepted lie." "Atheist!" they cry, "blasphemer!" scourging him To reckless opposition. There he stands At every lull in the tempest knelling out His dogma like a tocsin. What to do Surpasses me!
Belfry. God! Crowds believe in God! My cats, Sir Tristram, what a fool you are! A fighting parson crossed the floats and all The stalls came after bellowing--men I mean. The pittites followed and the gallery boys Are breaking forms and shying splinters. "God! "For God!" they roar, parson and moneylender, Broker and banker, counterjumper, peer. The women, too; they all believe in God; Duchesses, milliners, wives and prostitutes, They scream for God. God pays! you bet! God pays! They'll wreck your theatre, Tristram; but I'll buy it! The Grosvenor? Yes; in ruins! I want it. Name Your figure, Tristram.