PRELUDE-At-The-THEATRE

       Table of Contents

      MANAGER — DRAMATIC POET — MERRY ANDREW

      MANAGER

      You two, who oft a helping hand

       Have lent, in need and tribulation.

       Come, let me know your expectation

       Of this, our enterprise, in German land!

       I wish the crowd to feel itself well treated,

       Especially since it lives and lets me live;

       The posts are set, the booth of boards completed.

       And each awaits the banquet I shall give.

       Already there, with curious eyebrows raised,

       They sit sedate, and hope to be amazed.

       I know how one the People’s taste may flatter,

       Yet here a huge embarrassment I feel:

       What they’re accustomed to, is no great matter,

       But then, alas! they’ve read an awful deal.

       How shall we plan, that all be fresh and new —

       Important matter, yet attractive too?

       For ’tis my pleasure-to behold them surging,

       When to our booth the current sets apace,

       And with tremendous, oft-repeated urging,

       Squeeze onward through the narrow gate of grace:

       By daylight even, they push and cram in

       To reach the seller’s box, a fighting host,

       And as for bread, around a baker’s door, in famine,

       To get a ticket break their necks almost.

       This miracle alone can work the Poet

       On men so various: now, my friend, pray show it.

      POET

      Speak not to me of yonder motley masses,

       Whom but to see, puts out the fire of Song!

       Hide from my view the surging crowd that passes,

       And in its whirlpool forces us along!

       No, lead me where some heavenly silence glasses

       The purer joys that round the Poet throng —

       Where Love and Friendship still divinely fashion

       The bonds that bless, the wreaths that crown his passion!

       Ah, every utterance from the depths of feeling

       The timid lips have stammeringly expressed —

       Now failing, now, perchance, success revealing —

       Gulps the wild Moment in its greedy breast;

       Or oft, reluctant years its warrant sealing,

       Its perfect stature stands at last confessed!

       What dazzles, for the Moment spends its spirit:

       What’s genuine, shall Posterity inherit.

      MERRY–ANDREW

      Posterity! Don’t name the word to me!

       If I should choose to preach Posterity,

       Where would you get contemporary fun?

       That men will have it, there’s no blinking:

       A fine young fellow’s presence, to my thinking,

       Is something worth, to every one.

       Who genially his nature can outpour,

       Takes from the People’s moods no irritation;

       The wider circle he acquires, the more

       Securely works his inspiration.

       Then pluck up heart, and give us sterling coin!

       Let Fancy be with her attendants fitted —

       Sense, Reason, Sentiment, and Passion join —

       But have a care, lest Folly be omitted!

      MANAGER

      Chiefly, enough of incident prepare!

       They come to look, and they prefer to stare.

       Reel off a host of threads before their faces,

       So that they gape in stupid wonder: then

       By sheer diffuseness you have won their graces,

       And are, at once, most popular of men.

       Only by mass you touch the mass; for any

       Will finally, himself, his bit select:

       Who offers much, brings something unto many,

       And each goes home content with the effect,

       If you’ve a piece, why, just in pieces give it:

       A hash, a stew, will bring success, believe it!

       ’Tis easily displayed, and easy to invent.

       What use, a Whole compactly to present?

       Your hearers pick and pluck, as soon as they receive it!

      POET

      You do not feel, how such a trade debases;

       How ill it suits the Artist, proud and true!

       The botching work each fine pretender traces

       Is, I perceive, a principle with you.

      MANAGER

      Such a reproach not in the least offends;

       A man who some result intends

       Must use the tools that best are fitting.

       Reflect, soft wood is given to you for splitting,

       And then, observe for whom you write!

       If one comes bored, exhausted quite,

       Another, satiate, leaves the banquet’s tapers,

       And, worst of all, full many a wight

       Is fresh from reading of the daily papers.

       Idly to us they come, as to a masquerade,

       Mere curiosity their spirits warming:

       The ladies with themselves, and with their finery, aid,

       Without a salary their parts performing.

       What dreams are yours in high poetic places?

       You’re pleased, forsooth, full houses to behold?

       Draw near, and view your patrons’ faces!

       The half are coarse, the half are cold.

       One, when the play is out, goes home to cards;

       A wild night on a wench’s breast another chooses:

       Why should you rack, poor, foolish bards,

       For ends like these, the gracious Muses?

       I tell you, give but more — more, ever more, they ask:

       Thus shall you hit the mark of gain and glory.

       Seek to confound your auditory!

       To satisfy them is a task. —

       What ails you now? Is’t suffering, or pleasure?

      POET

      Go,