To conclude for the present: Whence is the Universe and Why? The Universe itself is the only answer to these questions. Whence is the Universe? There is no whence; it fills space. Why is the Universe? It cannot tell: it is neither necessary nor unnecessary: it is. There are, properly, no answers to these questions; therefore these questions are not. The Universe says always and only, "Here and Now."
THE THEATROCRAT A TRAGIC PLAY OF CHURCH AND STAGE
"This is the freedom of the Universe" Wordsworth
Sir Tristram Sumner ... Proprietor and Manager of the Grosvenor Theatre. Gervase Sackville ... Bishop of St. James's. Warwick Groom ...} Silas Orchard ... } Actors. Mark Belfry ... An American Manager. Hildreth ... Sir Tristram's Secretary. Abbot ... Business Manager. Salerne ... Stage Manager. Blyth ... } Boulder ... } Commissionaires. Temple ... Sir Tristram's Dresser. Rouse ... Call-boy. Two Doctors Lady Sumner ... Sir Tristram's Wife. Europa Troop ... An Actress. Actors, Scene-shifters, Property-men.
Scene: London. Time: The Present A month elapses between the third and fourth Acts.
Scene: Sir Tristram Sumner's study in his house in Piccadilly. Sir Tristram is reading an old letter. When the door opens he puts the letter hastily in his pocket.
Sir T. Martha! You've come to trouble me; your eyes Are lustreless and evil. Will it end At all? Will you give over urging death?
Sir T. Impossible: at any time impossible. I hate him, Martha.
Lady S. Hate? Hate Warwick Groom! I thought you hated no one.
Sir T. So did I! But him I hate; because--he was my friend.
Sir T. Therefore I hate him more! But that's not true: hate fathoms hate, and answers Index-like, the searching current of its thought, Down through the earth, or round it in the nerveless Air. Deep he hates me; by my hate I know. I tell you, Martha, were Warwick Groom and I Alone together for an hour, the death Of either or of both would testify Our rooted rancour.
Lady S. I cannot understand! True, he is wild, this Warwick Groom of ours, And doors are shut against him; but a braver Artist starves not anywhere.
Lady S. This is so new, so sudden, Tristram!
Sir T. No; Nothing is sudden that the heart brings forth. The mushroom spawn of passing loves and hates By thunder-showers and puddles quickly bred, To rot as quickly, in sequestered nooks Or by the trodden highways, are nothing--nothing But rashes on the skin.