Sir T. No; it's war: Behind, the great idea; here, in front, The petty detail and order of the night. Remember your prediction: You believe Terrific war will burst the chrysalis, The Christendom that hangs in filthy rags About the eager soul already winged With crimson plumes and violet, green and gold, Psyche at last, pure Matter of itself, Imagination, free of the Universe. With words and shows equipped we wage great war, And here to-night deliver battle. Temple! [Enter Temple from the Dressing-room.] Wine, Heroic brandy, or the water of life? ... Champagne for me.... Nothing? To toast the play! St. J. That's not my mood at all! Sir T. Nor is it mine! The shimmering surface of the player's life Is all he flaunts when most his soul is stirred. He turns the silver lining to the world; The tempest and the darkness where he breeds His high ostents and subtleties of art Are hidden. Who can tell what tragic mirth May occupy the other side of the moon? St. J. Fill up for me too, Temple! I forget In this erect and seminal thought of mine That men are many-sided. I toast the war Our play proclaims to-night. [Temple, having filled two tumblers with champagne, returns to the Dressing-room. Sir Tristram and St. James's drink.] Sir T. The war of wars! St. J. A century, a millennium of war Against the sin and sacro-sanctity That holds the world in thrall and hides from man His true material being. [Rouse appears at the door of the Reception-room.] Rouse. The overture, My lord. [Disappears.] St. J. I come, I come.--Strange fear perturbs Me suddenly. Sir T. But that's a certain sign Of perfect power. The house will welcome you: We love frank courage still. St. J. Courage? What courage? Having some gift of oratory, I Deliver my own prologue. Courage once Took heart in men when those who thought and spake Were racked and roasted: this attempt Exacts effrontery: not courage. Sir T. Say Effrontery: you do it; it is yours; A piece of you: accept it; love it therefore. St. J. A shamefulness attends this thing. The house Will hiss me, Tristram. Sir T. No; your fervid voice Will mould and temper to delight the crude Anticipation of the audience. Speak Like one inspired; speak, Gervase, like yourself. [St. James's goes out.] Now, Temple, quickly! [As Sir Tristram crosses to his Dressing-room Europa Troop enters, dressed for her part.]