ife to make
it also free and fruitful.

Julia Wainwright caught her in the wings, and pressed her to her bosom,
and exclaimed,--

'Oh, my dear, you will be famous--famous. They'll be on their knees to
you in New York.'

And Freeland Moore, dressed for the part of Caliban, said,--

'This isn't going to be Sir Henry's or Mann's show. It is going to be
Clara Day's.'

The good creatures! It was only a show to them, and they were elated
and happy to think of the thousands and thousands of pounds, dollars,
francs, roubles, and marks that would be showered on their friend.
With such a success as they now dreamed the trouble they had dreaded
for her would make no difference. A 'story' would be even valuable.

But what had Ariel to do with pounds and dollars, roubles and marks?
Ariel asked nothing but freedom after ages pining in a cloven pine....
In this world of money and machinery and intrigue to control machinery
with money, to be free was the deep and secret desire of all humanity.
Here in London hearts ached and souls murmured to be free, only to be
free, for one moment at whatever cost of tears and suffering and bloody
agony. All this in her heart Clara knew, she knew it from her meeting
with Rodd, from her solitary brooding in her room, from the drunken
women fighting in the street, from the uncontrolled fantasy in Charles
Mann, from the boredom that ate away poor Verschoyle's heart; and all
the knowledge of her adventurous life she gathered up to distil it into
the delight of freedom, for its own sake and also for the sake of the
hereafter which, if there be no moment of freedom, no flowering of
life, must sink into a deeper and more miserable slavery.

In this mood it was pathetic to see Sir Henry, whose whole power lay in
machinery, pretending as Prospero to rule by magic. So pathetically
out of place was he that he could not even remember the words that so
mightily revealed his authority.... When he broke down, he would
declare that it was quite a simple matter to improvise blank verse....
But Clara would not let him improvise. She was always ready with the
words, the right inevitable words. She would not let him impair her
freedom with his lazy reliance upon the machinery of the theatre to
pull him through, and so, when he opened his mouth and looked vague,
and covered the absence of words with a large gesture, she was ready
for him.

He reproved her.

'I am always like this at a dress rehearsal