Sir T. I thought For half an hour when this came, reasoning thus: "Martha is chaste: against my eyes and ears "That I will die for"--I was deep in love. "And if she dropped a stitch, what's that to me? "Women are sensual, full of seed like men; "But me she loves--a different fire from that "Uneasy prurience wondering girls and boys "Alike give facile way to, now and then. "Have I no past? If she has hers, we both "Begin the world anew." And best and worst This Odham died upon my marriage-day. St. J. What kind of man was he? Sir T. A wastrel, prime And perfect; a vocation--genius for it: A parson's son, of course: acted himself A while, then fell to dressing unperturbed. He died of alcohol.--We played a week,-- He, Romeo, I, Mercutio; failed and lost Three thousand pounds or so. But he and I Were marked and sought for. Of the two I think Groom was the abler actor, and certainly Beyond comparison popular. Bidding high After my marriage I declined to play Except with mediocrities, having felt Rather than recognised, how much depends Upon the pathos of inequality, The very essence of the theatre. Groom was my rival in the public mind; Therefore I made my book against him--he, Against me, doubtless, burrowing underground. Armed with advantage all unknown to him-- 'Varsity, Policy, Church--I kept him out Wherever I came in: not difficult Without advantage even, he being then As now, his own worst enemy, debauched And drunken, with relapses of remorse. In one relapse---- St. J. Relapse! Sir T. ----he stormed the town Then failed and failed again; while I became The representative actor of my time. My fame is rooted in his infamy: Especially in his; and in the fame Eclipsed of every actor--which to me Would be the blackest infamy. St. J. So harsh! Sir T. Truth, Gervase; it's the truth; no pleasure, power, Glory, applause, but strikes its cancerous roots Deep in the hearts of men; for what is fame But envy by a virtuous title saved From dying of chagrin, transmuted echo Of curses and of sighs! St. J. Come to the crux. Sir T. I hate my wife. She forces Warwick on me To play the part of Troilus. Suddenly The nebulous past contracts to this: my wife Was Warwick's mistress before she married me; And I could kill them both. What must I do? St. J. You must not kill them, and you must deny That Martha was Warwick's mistress: deny it now. 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. Sir T. Divorce?