Have you told them that you wrote it?
SHELLEY
I tried to. It didn’t sound reasonable.
HILDA
Well, you were able to explain it to me. Help me to persuade Papa to
come out here.
[_She disappears._]
SHELLEY
Hendrick, for my sake.
HILDA’S VOICE
There, did you hear that? For his sake, he said. Miss Fosli, will you
kindly push forward the wicker settee from the last act? Thank you.
[_A wicker settee suddenly appears._]
Now, Papa.
[_Hilda reappears leading the dramatist. Ibsen is smiling sternly
through his spectacles and through his fringe of up-curling
white whiskers._]
Now sit down and Shelley will begin again.
IBSEN
Hurry, young man. My beautiful play is ready to begin. The kingdom
is on the table, the nurseries are empty, and this house is full of
unconverted people.
HILDA
[_Touching his shoe with the tip of her alpenstock._]
Hush, Papa. Let him go about it in his own way. Have you told them
about the poem you were about to write when you died?
SHELLEY
No.
[_To the audience._]
Ladies and Gentlemen, on the day I died,--drowned in the
Mediterranean,--I was full of a poem to be called THE DEATH OF A
CENTAUR, that I did not have time to put on paper.
HILDA
You forgot to say that it was a very good poem.
SHELLEY
I couldn’t say that.
HILDA
You said it to me.
[_Turning to the audience._]
You should know that this young man had come to a time when everything
he wrote was valuable. He was as sure to write great poems as a good
apple tree is to give good apples.
SHELLEY
Perhaps it would have been one of the better ones. At all events, it
was never written....
IBSEN
[_Rising excitedly and stamping his feet as though they had snow
on them._]
And I claim that I wrote it. The poem hung for a while above the
Mediterranean, and then drifted up toward the Tyrol and I caught it and
wrote it down. And it is THE MASTER BUILDER.
HILDA
Now you must sit down, Papa, and keep calm. We must reason this out
calmly. In the first place, both are certainly about centaurs. What do
you say, Shelley?
SHELLEY
Well, it is not a strange idea, or a new one, that the stuff of which
masterpieces are made drifts about the world waiting to be clothed
with words. It is a truth that Plato would have understood that
the mere language, the words of a masterpiece are the least of its
offerings. Nay, in the world we have come into now, the languages of
the planet have no value; but the impulse, the idea of “Comus” is a
miracle, even in heaven. Let you remember this when you regret the
work that has been lost through this war that has been laid upon your
treasurable young men. The work they might have done is still with you,
and will yet find its way into your lives and into your children’s
lives.
IBSEN
Enough, enough! You will be revealing all the mysteries soon. Enough
has been said to prove that THE DEATH OF A CENTAUR and THE MASTER
BUILDER are the same poem. Get in with you, children. The play is ready
to start. Solness sits with his head in his hands and the harps are in
the air.
[_He goes behind the curtains. Shelley lingers a moment; a shadow
has fallen across his face._]
HILDA
[_Laying her hand on his arm._]
What is the matter?
SHELLEY
That reminded me ... of another poem ... I did not write down.
_LEVIATHAN_
MID-MEDITERRANEAN. _Sunrise after a night of storm with the sea
swaying prodigiously. A great Venetian argosy has been wrecked
overnight; ships and men have disappeared, leaving only the cargo
spread out upon the waters. Momently new treasures from the ship’s
holds float upward and, reaching the surface, are swept hither and
thither for miles: Persian rugs, great lengths of brocade, boxes
of spice, made from tropical leaves and bound with dried vine; and
an apparently interminable swathe of gray silk unwinding from its
ivory standard._
_In the foreground a mermaid is feeling her way among the stuffs
with considerable distaste. To one used to the shadowed harmonies
of deep-sea color these crimsons and oranges have no attraction._
BRIGOMEÏDÉ _has the green wiry hair of her kind, entangled with
the friendly snail; the iridescent shoulders of all sea-women, and
the gray thin mouth_.
_Suddenly she comes upon_ THE PRINCE. _The royal divan has been
swept from the decks, and while the huge pillows are gradually
soaking up the water and floating away, their Prince lies on them
unconscious. For a moment the mermaid watches him open-mouthed.
She steals nearer and holding on to the tassels of seed-pearls,
leans cautiously over and scans his face long and wonderingly. She
sighs faintly, splashes a little in discontent, and then gazes
upon him again with a frown of concentration._
BRIGOMEÏDÉ
It’s breathing. He has not lost--what they call--the soul. I wonder
where he keeps it. It is the great difference between us; we sea-people
have no soul. I wonder where he keeps it! I have heard that it can be
seen at times, in the eyes. Perhaps if I borrowed it from him while he
slept he would never miss it. No,--I will ask him for it.
[_She claps her hands suddenly to awake him, falling back, at
the same time, into the water. The young man does not stir.
She grows angry. She strikes the water sharply with the palms
of her hands. By quick degrees a circling wind rises; great
fantastic waves rear themselves, robed in silk; they break
over the divan and the Prince stirs. Immediately_ BRIGOMEÏDÉ
_strokes the water to a stillness, and fixes her attention on
the young man_.]
THE PRINCE
My father, take not your hand away. My brothers, why have you ceased
talking? Where am I?--All is lost! _Ave Maris Stella!_
BRIGOMEÏDÉ
[_Watching him intently._]
How could you sleep so--during the storm?
THE PRINCE
You--you are out of a dream. You are out of my fever. Yes, yes--the
storm--you--all this is but the painting of my fever. I shall awake in
Venice with the lute-player fallen asleep by the window. I will call
to him now and he will wake me up: Amedeo!--Lute-player! Shake me out
of this dream!
[_The silence that follows is filled with the crackling noise as
the pith fillings of the heavier cushions become saturated._]
BRIGOMEÏDÉ
[_Harshly._]
Who is it you are calling to? There is no one here, but you and me only.
THE PRINCE
Amedeo!--he does not answer: this is real. But you, you are dream; you
are illusion. _Ave Maris Stella!_
BRIGOMEÏDÉ
[_Indignantly._]
I am not dream. I am not illusion. I am royal among all sea-women--I am
of the Third Order; on the three great tide days I am permitted to bind
my hair with Thetis-Agrandis and wear in my ears the higher Muria.
THE PRINCE
You are out of an old ballad, taught me as a boy, and you have come
back to me in the last hour on the tide of fever. In a moment my dream
will have passed on from you.
BRIGOMEÏDÉ
[_Vehemently._]
You think I am only dream because ... you have heard it said ... we
sea-folk have no souls.
THE PRINCE
Soul nor body.
BRIGOMEÏDÉ
[_More softly._]
Tell me where it is you keep your soul. Have you it always with you?
THE PRINCE
[_As a great pillow floats away from under his hand._]
_Flos undarum!_ Save me! Deliver me! Hear my prayer!
BRIGOMEÏDÉ
Who are you speaking to? Did I not tell you there was no one here but
you and me only?
THE PRINCE
You! Tell me we where is shore. You can swim for days. Draw me to some
island. I will give you great riches ... all you desire.
BRIGOMEÏDÉ
Give me your soul. All my days I have longed for two things, black hair
and a soul. I have not lacked anything else. I will draw you to your
home, if you will give me your soul.
THE PRINCE
[_Violently._]
It cannot be given away. No one has seen it; it cannot be felt with
hands; seen or tasted.
BRIGOMEÏDÉ
And yet they say it is the greatest thing in the world; that without
it life is a cold procession of hours; that it gives all sight to the
eyes, and all hearing to the ears ... you are mocking me! I see in your
face that you have it now!
THE PRINCE
Yes, and am about to lose it.
BRIGOMEÏDÉ
Give it to me, and I will bring up from the bottom of the sea your
father and your brothers. I will return to you all the pearls that have
fallen here, and draw you softly into the narrows of Venice.
THE PRINCE
[_As the water closes over him._]
Amedeo!... Lute-player!
[BRIGOMEÏDÉ _turns away contemptuously_.]
BRIGOMEÏDÉ
It is something you cannot touch or see. What could I do with it so?
[THE PRINCE _rises, dead, entangled in scarves_. BRIGOMEÏDÉ
_stares into his face long and earnestly_.]
It is true! There is something gone ... that lay about his eyes, that
troubled his mouth. The soul, perhaps.
[_She claps her hands. From a great distance a sea-serpent swims
hugely towards her. He is caught in the trailing lengths of
gray brocade._]
BRIGOMEÏDÉ
Gog-etar! There is no longer anything precious in this man. You may
divide him among your young.
LEVIATHAN
It is terrible here, lady. These spices have made the streams
unendurable. By to-morrow morning the waters will be tainted as far as
Africa. Already my young are ill, lady. They lie motionless in the mud,
dear lady. It is terrible to see them so....
BRIGOMEÏDÉ
I do not want to hear your troubles. Take this man away.
LEVIATHAN
Thanks, gracious lady. Perhaps these hateful essences will have made
him endurable....
BRIGOMEÏDÉ
Cease!
[_He drags_ THE PRINCE _away. The frustrated_ BRIGOMEÏDÉ _starts
to comb the shell out of her hair, singing. Suddenly she breaks
her song and adds musingly._]
Perhaps it is better, although your body has passed to Leviathan, still
to have another part of you somewhere about the world.
_AND THE SEA SHALL GIVE UP ITS DEAD_
_The clangor of Judgment Day’s last trumpet dies away in the remotest
pockets of space, and time comes to an end like a frayed ribbon.
In the nave of creation the diaphanous amphitheater is already
building for the trial of all flesh. Several miles below the
surface of the North Atlantic, the spirits of the drowned rise
through the water like bubbles in a neglected wineglass._
A WOMAN
[_To the gray weeds of whose soul still cling the vestiges of
color, some stained purples and some wasted reds._]
At last I could struggle no longer. My head and lungs were under
intense discomfort by reason of the water with which they were filled.
I said to myself: “Only think, Gertruda, you have actually arrived at
the moment of death!” Even then I was unwilling to believe it, though
my lungs were on the point of bursting. One is never really able to
believe that one will die. It is especially difficult for sovereigns
who seldom, if ever, confront inevitable situations. Perhaps you know
that I am Gertruda XXII, Empress of Newfoundland from 2638 to 2698?
A STOUT LITTLE MAN
Your Imperial Highness’s experience is much like mine. I lived about
five hundred years before Your Imperial Highness. I had always dreaded
the moment of extinction, yet mine was less painful than a headache.
THE EMPRESS
We know now that the real pain comes to us in the ages that have
passed since then. Have you too been swinging in mid-ocean, tangled in
a cocoon of seaweed, slowly liberating your mind from the prides and
prejudices and trivialities of a life-time? That is what is painful.
THE LITTLE MAN
I was a Jew and very proud of my race. Living under what I took to be
the aspersions of my neighbors I had nourished the arrogant delusion
that I was notable. It has taken me five hundred years of painful
reflection to disembarrass myself of this notion. I was a theatrical
producer and thought myself important to my time, wise, witty, and
kindly. Each of these ideas I have shed with a hundred times the pain
of losing a limb. Now I am reconciled to the fact that I am naked, a
fool, a child.
THE EMPRESS
In my life I believed fiercely that everything of which I said MY had
some peculiar excellence. It was impossible to imagine a citizen proud
of any country save Newfoundland, or a woman vain of any hair save the
golden. I had a passion for genealogies and antiquities and felt that
such things merely looked forward to myself. Now these many years I
have been wrapped in barnacles, divorcing my soul from all that it once
loved. Even my love for my son and my son’s love for me have vanished
through sheer inconsequence. All this is the second death, and the
one to be dreaded. I was afraid that when I had shed away my royalty
and my beauty and my administrative talent and my pure descent and my
astonishing memory for names, I was afraid that there would be nothing
left. But fortunately, underneath all this litter I have found a tiny
morsel of ... but dare we say the Name?--But what was yours?
THE LITTLE MAN
Horatio Nissem.
THE EMPRESS
Speak to that man who is rising through the water beside you.
HORATIO NISSEM
Who are you, and what particular follies have you laid aside?
A TALL THIN DREAMY MAN
I was a priest of the gospel and a terrible time I have had taking
leave of my sins. I tremble to think how but a few moments ago I still
retained a longing for stupidities. Yes, sir, for the planets. I felt
sure that they had personalities and I looked forward after my death to
hearing their songs. Now I know that sun and moon and stars have fallen
like dust into the lap of their maker. I told myself, also, that after
death I should sit through eternity overhearing the conversation of
Coleridge and Augustine and Our Lord; there I should embrace my loved
ones and my enemies; there I should hear vindicated before the devils
the great doctrines of Infant Baptism and Sacramental Confession.
Only now have I been delivered from these follies. As I swayed in the
meteoric slime I begged God to punish me for certain sins of my youth,
moments I well remembered of rage and pride and shame. But these seemed
of no importance to him: he seemed rather to be erasing from my mind
the notion that my sins were of any consequence. I see now that even
the idea that I was capable of sinning was a self-flattery and an
impertinence. My name was Father Cosroe: now my name is Worm.
THE EMPRESS
We still cling obstinately to our identity, as though there were
something valuable in it. This very moment I feel relics of pleasure in
the fact that I am myself and no one else. Yet in a moment, if there
is a moment, we shall all be reduced to our quintessential matter, and
you, Mr. Nissem, will be exactly indistinguishable from me. God Himself
will not be able to tell the Empress of Newfoundland from the Reverend
Doctor Cosroe.
HORATIO NISSEM
[_In mounting terror._]
I am afraid. I refuse to give myself up.
THE EMPRESS
Do not cry out, fool. You have awakened all my rebellious nature. O
God, do not take away my identity! I do not ask for my title or my
features; do not take away my myself!
HORATIO NISSEM
Do you hear? I refuse to give myself up. O God, let me not be mistaken
for a Gentile.
FATHER COSROE
Your screaming has aroused my madness. Let me keep my particular mind,
O God, my own curious mind with all I have put into it!
[_The three panic-stricken souls reach the surface of the sea. The
extensive business of Domesday is over in a twinkling and the
souls divested of all identification have tumbled, like falling
stars, into the blaze of unicity. Soon nothing exists in space
but the great unwinking eye, meditating a new creation._]
_NOW THE SERVANT’S NAME WAS MALCHUS_
_In his father’s house are many mansions, and it is from the windows
of one of them that he stands looking out upon the clockwork of
the skies. With the precision that is possible only to things dead
in themselves, the stars weave incessantly their interlocking
measures. At intervals the blackest pockets of space give birth to
a nebula, whirling in new anguish, but for the most part the sky
offers only its vast stars, eased in the first gradations of their
cooling, and fulfilling happily and with a faint humming sound the
long loops of their appointment._
[_To him comes_ GABRIEL, _secretary and soldier_.]
GABRIEL
There are some unusually urgent petitions here.... There’s this Colonel
on a raft in the Bengal Sea--Here again is the widow and her two
daughters in Moscow. A lady in Rome.
[_He lays some papers on the table._]
Besides, there is someone outside who wishes to speak to you. He says
he knew you on earth. I think he has something to complain of, even
here.
OUR LORD
Let him wait a moment.
[_There is loud rapping at the door._]
GABRIEL
There he is again.
OUR LORD
Then let him in.
[GABRIEL _admits_ MALCHUS _and goes out_.]
MALCHUS
Please, sir, excuse me being so hasty, but I had to speak to you about
something.
OUR LORD
You are displeased with Heaven?
MALCHUS
Oh no, sir--except for one thing.
OUR LORD
We will talk about it in a minute. Come by the window and look. Can you
tell me which of those stars is mine?
MALCHUS
Lord, all are yours, surely.
OUR LORD
No, only one is mine, for only one bears living things upon it. And
where there is no life I have no power. All the stars save one are
lifeless; not even a blade of grass pushes through their powder or
their flame. But one of them is so crowded with event that Heaven
itself is scarcely able to attend to its needs.--But you are not
interested?
MALCHUS
Oh, sir, it was so long ago that I was there that I cannot be expected
to.... Even my children’s children have long since left it. I cannot be
very interested. Since I am so happy here,--except for one thing. But I
should like to see it again. Which is it, sir?
OUR LORD
There, see! See where it floats for a moment out of a green mist. If
your ears were accustomed to it as mine are, you would hear what I
hear: the sigh as it turns. Now what is it you want of me?
MALCHUS
Well, as you know I was the High Priest’s servant in the garden when
you were taken. Sir, it’s hardly worth mentioning.
OUR LORD
No, no. Speak out.
MALCHUS
And one of your fellows took out his sword and cut off my ear.
OUR LORD
Yes.
MALCHUS
It’s ... it’s hardly worth mentioning. Most of the time, Lord, we’re
very happy up here and nothing disturbs us at our games. But whenever
someone on earth thinks about us we are aware of it, pleasantly or
unpleasantly. A sort of something crosses our mind. And because I’m in
your book someone is always reading about me and thinking about me for
a moment, and in the middle of my games I feel it. Especially at this
season when your death is celebrated, no moment goes by without this
happening. And what they think is, that I’m ridiculous.
OUR LORD
I see. And you want your name to be erased from the book?
MALCHUS
[_Eagerly._]
Yes, sir. I thought you could just make the pages become blank at that
place.
OUR LORD
Now that you have come here everything that you wish is granted to you.
You know that.
MALCHUS
Yes, sir; thank you, sir.
OUR LORD
But stay a minute. At this season, Malchus, a number of people are
thinking of me, too.
MALCHUS
Yes, Lord, but as good, as great....
OUR LORD
But, Malchus, I am ridiculous too.
MALCHUS
Oh, no, no!
OUR LORD
Ridiculous because I suffered from the delusion that after my death I
could be useful to men.
MALCHUS
They don’t say that!
OUR LORD
And that my mind lay under a malady that many a doctor could cure. And
that I have deceived and cheated millions and millions of souls who in
their extremity called on me for the aid I had promised. They did not
know that I died like any other man and their prayers mounted into vain
air, for I no longer exist. My promises were so vast that I am either
divine or ridiculous.
[_Pause._]
Malchus, will you stay and be ridiculous with me?
MALCHUS
Yes, sir, I’ll stay. I’m glad to stay. Though in a way I haven’t any
right to be there. I wasn’t even the High Priest’s servant; I only
held his horse every now and then. And ... and I used to steal a
little,--only you’ve forgiven me that. Sure, I’m glad to stay.
OUR LORD
Thank you, Malchus.
MALCHUS
[_Smiling._]
It isn’t even true in the book. It was my left ear and not my right.
OUR LORD
Yes, the book isn’t always true about me, either.
MALCHUS
Excuse my troubling you, sir. Good day.
OUR LORD
Good day, Malchus.
[MALCHUS _goes out_. GABRIEL _enters discreetly and lays down some
more papers_.]
GABRIEL
[_In a low voice._]
The raft has capsized, sir, on the Bengal Sea, and the Colonel will be
here at once. The woman in Moscow....
_MOZART AND THE GRAY STEWARD_
MOZART _is seated at a table in a mean room in Vienna orchestrating
the “Magic Flute.” Leaves of ruled paper are strewn about the
floor. His wife enters in great excitement._
CONSTANZE
There’s someone come to see you, someone important. Pray God, it’s a
commission from Court.
MOZART
[_Unmoved._]
Not while Salieri’s alive.
CONSTANZE
Put on your slippers, dear. It’s some one dressed all in gray, with a
gray mask over his eyes, and he’s come in a great coach with its coat
of arms all covered up with gray cloth. Pray God, it’s a commission
from Court for a _Te Deum_ or something.
[_She tidies up the room in six gestures._]
MOZART
Not while Salieri’s alive.
CONSTANZE
But, now, do be nice, ’Gangl, please. We must have some money, my
treasure. Just listen to him and say “yes” and “thank you” and then
you and I’ll talk it over after he’s gone.
[_She holds his coat._]
Come, put this on. Step into your slippers.
MOZART
[_Sighing._]
I’m not well. I’m at home. I’m at work. There’s not a single visitor in
the whole world that could interest me. Bring him in.
CONSTANZE
[_Adjusting his stock._]
Now don’t be proud. Just accept.
[_She hurries out and presently reënters preceding the visitor.
The visitor is dressed from head to foot in gray silk. His
bright eyes look out through the holes in a narrow gray silk
mask. He holds to his nose a gray perfumed handkerchief. One
would say: an elegant undertaker._]
THE GRAY STEWARD
Kappelmeister Mozart, _servus_. Gracious lady, _servus_.
MOZART
_Servus._
THE GRAY STEWARD
Revered and noble master, wherever music reigns, wherever genius is
valued, the name of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is....
MOZART
Sir, I have always been confused by compliments and beg you to spare me
that mortification by proceeding at once to the cause of your visit ...
the ... the honor of your visit.
THE GRAY STEWARD
Revered master, before I lay my business before you, may I receive your
promise that--whether you accept my commission or not--you both will....
MOZART
I promise you our secrecy, unless our silence would prove dishonorable
to me or injurious to some one else. Pray continue.
THE GRAY STEWARD
Know then, gracious and revered genius, that I come from a prince who
combines all the qualities of birth, station, generosity and wisdom.
MOZART
Ha! a European secret.
THE GRAY STEWARD
His Excellency moreover has just sustained a bitter misfortune. He has
lately lost his wife and consort, a lady who was the admiration of her
court and the sole light of her bereaved husband’s life. Therefore,
his Excellency, my master, commissions you to compose a Requiem Mass
in honor of this lady. He asks you to pour into it the height of your
invention and that wealth of melody and harmony that have made you the
glory of our era. And for this music he asks leave to pay you the sum
of four hundred crowns,--two hundred now, and the second two hundred
crowns when you deliver the first four numbers.
MOZART
Well, Constanze, I must not be proud.
THE GRAY STEWARD
There is but one proviso.
MOZART
Yes, I heard it. The work must represent the height of my invention.
THE GRAY STEWARD
That was an easy assumption, master. The proviso is this: You shall
let his Excellency have this music as an anonymous work, and you shall
never by any sign, by so much as the nod of your head, acknowledge that
the work is yours.
MOZART
And his Excellency is not aware that the pages I may compose at the
height of my invention may be their own sufficient signature?
THE GRAY STEWARD
That may be. Naturally my master will see to it that no other composer
will ever be able to claim the work as his.
MOZART
Quick, give me your paper and I will sign it. Leave your two hundred
crowns with my wife at the foot of the stairs. Come back in August and
you will have the first four numbers. _Servus. Servus._
THE GRAY STEWARD
[_Backing out._]
_Servus_, master. _Servus_, madame.
[CONSTANZE _returns in a moment and looks anxiously towards her
husband_.]
CONSTANZE
A visit from Heaven, ’Gangl. Now you can go into the country. Now you
can drink all the Bohemian water in the world.
MOZART
[_Bitterly._]
Good. And just at a time when I was contemplating a Requiem Mass. But
for _myself_. However, I must not be proud.
CONSTANZE
[_Trying to divert him._]
Who can these people be? Try and think.
MOZART