PLAYS
BY
LEONID ANDREYEFF
[Illustration: Leonid Andreyeff]
PLAYS
BY
LEONID ANDREYEFF
THE BLACK MASKERS
THE LIFE OF MAN
THE SABINE WOMEN
TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY
CLARENCE L. MEADER AND FRED NEWTON SCOTT
WITH AN INTRODUCTORY ESSAY BY
V. V. BRUSYANIN
_AUTHORISED EDITION_
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1923
COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
Printed in the United States of America
Published February, 1915
[Illustration]
PREFACE
The present versions of “The Life of Man” and “The Black Maskers” are
based respectively on the texts printed in the seventh and tenth volumes
of the “Collected Works” of Andreyeff, published by the Prosveshchenie
Company, of Petrograd; the version of “The Sabine Women” is based on the
Russian text published by J. Ladyschnikow, in Berlin.
The spelling _Andreyeff_ employed in this volume is adopted to secure
conformity with the spelling _Tchekoff_ adopted in the companion volume
“Plays by Tchekoff.” A more scientific transliteration would be _Andreev_.
The translators desire to express their appreciation of the courtesy of
the author in extending to them permission to translate the three plays
included in this volume, as well as other dramas, and also to acknowledge
with gratitude the aid received from Mr. Leonid Borisovich Moiseyeff, of
Tomsk, Siberia.
THE TRANSLATORS.
ANN ARBOR, MICH., October, 1914.
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
The life of Leonid Nikolaivich Andreyeff has been uneventful. He was
born on August 9, 1871, in the city of Orel, which is situated about two
hundred miles south of Moscow, in the country of the Great Russians.
The father, whose income was always small, died while Andreyeff was a
student in the city high school. From that time until his graduation
from the law department of Moscow University, at the age of twenty-six,
Andreyeff suffered greatly from lack of means, and three times he was
led by discouragement to attempt suicide. In childhood and youth he
manifested some aptitude for drawing and painting. Indeed, he supported
himself in part during his university career in Petrograd and Moscow
by painting portraits, but, owing to lack of proper instruction, such
endowments as he possessed in this line remained undeveloped. From
childhood he was an insatiable reader, and at an early age he had read
all the Russian classics and such foreign authors as had been translated
into his native tongue. In 1897 he attempted the practice of law, but,
meeting with no success and apparently possessing no aptitude for the
profession, he turned to newspaper reporting and later to feuilleton
writing for the _Moscow Courier_. A number of these early sketches are
republished in collected editions of his works. Since 1898 he has devoted
himself exclusively to literature, residing first in Moscow and later
in Petrograd. In 1906, finding the distractions of a large city too
serious an impediment to his literary work, he built a country home on a
picturesque site at Terioki, a much-frequented summer resort in Finland.
As Terioki is only thirty miles by rail from Petrograd, Andreyeff here
enjoys to a large extent the advantages of both country and city.
Andreyeff has steadily refused to take an active part in the political
life of his day and has never allied himself with any party, believing
that party creeds and dogmas are incompatible with the freedom of art.
Very near the beginning of Andreyeff’s literary career one of his stories
attracted the attention of Gorki, who was at that time at the height of
his fame, and who lent Andreyeff much encouragement and assistance. In
1901 Andreyeff suddenly became famous through the publication of a small
volume of stories which dealt with certain vital problems of Russian
society. Since that time his writings have been exceedingly popular.
His plays have been enthusiastically received and have had long runs in
the theatres, while the printed editions of his works have been rapidly
exhausted. An edition of eighteen thousand copies of “King Hunger,”
for example, was sold out in a single day. Notwithstanding the intense
interest with which his writings have been received, it has been his
lot to awaken some resentment and even indignation, and to call forth
storms of adverse criticism in some quarters. In this respect his fate
has been the fate of Tolstoi and most other great Russian writers, and
the opposition to him is accounted for in the same manner. As a critic
of society Andreyeff is interested not in the outer events of life, but
in character. Consequently his writings are devoted exclusively to the
revelation of certain qualities of men’s minds and hearts. His pictures
of the evils of Russian society are so vivid and the implied censures
on society so severe that, although his merits have been fully and
cheerfully acknowledged by the reading public as a whole, a certain
portion of the public, blinded by passion or prejudice, refuse even to
admit the existence of the perverted mental states which Andreyeff, as
a great artist and prophet, has seen and described. Such impassioned
attacks, however, will be regarded by the sober-minded as an indication
of the clearness of his vision, and as a tribute to his marvellous
descriptive powers.
THE SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OF ANDREYEFF
“THE LIFE OF MAN,” “THE BLACK MASKERS,” “THE SABINE WOMEN”[1]
Leonid Andreyeff, as a dramatist, is the most interesting product of
contemporary Russian literature. Abandoning the older traditions that
prevailed from Ostrovski[2] to Tolstoi, and passing by the school
of Tchekoff,[3] he brought to the theatre a unique form of art, the
rich possibilities of which he is still developing. In 1913 Andreyeff
published in the theatrical journal _Maski_ a “Letter on the Theatre.”[4]
This is a “confession of faith,” and describes in detail its author’s
conception not only of the theatre of the past but also of the theatre of
the future, to the latter of which he gives the new name “panpsyche.”[5]
Let us see what this theatre panpsyche is, and how Andreyeff applies his
theory to his dramatic productions.
With that spirit of independence which has characterised all great
Russian writers, Andreyeff, disregarding long-accepted traditions even
now generally regarded as essential, asks point-blank the heretical
question: “_Is action, in the accepted sense of movements and visible
achievements on the stage, necessary to the theatre?_” In his opinion
it is not necessary, inasmuch as modern life itself in its most tragic
aspects tends to withdraw farther and farther from external activities
and deeper and deeper into the recesses of the soul, into the silence
and outward calm that characterises mental life. From this answer to
his question one may see how far the theatre panpsyche will depart
from the older theatre of Shakespeare, Sardou, Dumas, and other
foreign dramatists, and even from the Russian schools that developed
out of Ostrovski’s art.[6] In this respect Andreyeff is closely akin
to Maeterlinck, in whose plays dramatic collisions are not marked by
external action, but the problems that characterise the life of the soul,
with its premonitions, its yearnings, and searchings, are brought in
concrete form before the footlights.
To illustrate his views, Andreyeff draws an interesting contrast between
the lives of two men of widely different ages and widely divergent
ethical views, Benvenuto Cellini and Friedrich Nietzsche. In reading
the memoirs of Cellini, Andreyeff was struck by the large number of
events in the life of the mediæval artist and adventurer. “How many
escapes, murders, surprises, losses and unexpected discoveries, loves and
enmities!” exclaims Andreyeff. “Cellini encounters more events in a short
walk from his home to the outskirts of the city than the average modern
man does in his entire life. Cellini’s life was a counterpart of the life
of his day, with its brigands, monks, dukes, swords, and mandolins. In
those days interest attached only to a life that was full of events,
continually active and achieving, whereas a life of inactivity was like a
clod lying by the roadside, of which there is nothing notable to be said.
Cellini’s life is a personification of the older theatre. Read any of the
older dramatists, observe any contemporary actor of the older school, and
you will realise how much there is of Cellini in them.”
In contrast with this, Andreyeff conceives the new theatre as the place
for the bodying forth of such intensely dramatic experiences as those
of Nietzsche. “Where in Nietzsche’s life,” asks Andreyeff, “are there
events, activities, physical achievements? In his early manhood, while
he was a Prussian soldier, and was still to a certain extent a man of
action, he was in the least degree a dramatist. The real drama of his
life begins just at the time when his life withdraws into the silence
and inactivity of the study. It is there that we find the painful
re-evaluation of all values, the tragical struggle, the break with
Wagner, and the charming Zarathustra!”
The contemporary drama, says Andreyeff, has shown itself powerless to
represent the drama of Nietzsche. In the presence of the spiritual
and intellectual conflict it is speechless. “Humbly bowing before
the immutable law of action, the contemporary drama declines to
represent—indeed, cannot represent for us—a Nietzsche, who is so near,
so important, so essential to our lives, but continues to offer us
in profusion empty, antiquated, and unnecessary Cellinis, with their
paraphernalia of tin swords, etc.” Andreyeff explains the crisis of the
obsolete theatre of to-day by the fact that life itself has withdrawn
into the inner recesses of the soul, whereas the theatre has paused at
the threshold of these new and profound psychological experiences and
intellectual strivings—the struggle of man’s thoughts with man—and has
never thrown open the door that leads to them.
In anticipation of the objections of his critics, Andreyeff asserts
that he does not in the least mean that events have ceased to occur,
that people have ceased to act, or that history has ceased its forward
movement. The chronicle of current events is still sufficiently
replete with suicides, strife, and war, but all these events in their
outward aspects have fallen in dramatic value. Life has become more
psychological. In the place of the older passions and the traditional
heroes of the drama, love and hunger, there has arisen a new protagonist,
the intellect. Not love, nor hunger, nor ambition, but thought in its
sufferings, joys, and struggles, is the true hero of the life of to-day.
To it therefore is due the first place in the drama. Indeed, Andreyeff
has gone so far as to entitle his last drama “Thought”; and if we examine
into the plays which he wrote at the beginning of his dramatic career,
“The Life of Man,” and “The Black Maskers,” we shall find in them the
same content.
_Man_, who is the hero of “The Life of Man,” and _Lorenzo_, the principal
character in “The Black Maskers,” are both victims of the tragedy of
their intellect, of their obstinate questionings in the realm of thought,
and their disenchantments in the sphere of the emotions—the love of life,
the love of people, the love of themselves. In “The Life of Man” some
fate, embodied in the _Being in Grey_, held in his hands the candle,
the emblem of life, and directed the thoughts of _Man_ from behind his
mysterious veil. Herein lies the whole tragedy of _Man_ and _Lorenzo_.
From poverty and sorrow _Man_ rises to wealth and happiness, and it would
appear that with such powerful spiritual weapons as the intellect and
the soul he might easily fortify his position. However, the _Being in
Grey_ turns out to be stronger than _Man_, with his intellect and soul,
with his thoughts and his conduct of life. Herein lies the drama of
_Man_, whose life has become an “inner” life, while the outward events
become non-essential, mere unavoidable details. _Duke Lorenzo_ was also
strong as far as the external factors of wealth and power were concerned.
Yet his restless thoughts, and in particular the one persistently
recurring thought that he was not _Duke Lorenzo_, but only the son of his
mother and a stable-man, gave rise to an inner, spiritual drama, which
overwhelmed the man _Lorenzo_ who is hidden behind the duke _Lorenzo_.
_Lorenzo_ thus slew his double, but he did not come out victorious over
the _Being in Grey_. Nothing in his life was changed for the better. In
his mind people took on the appearance of maskers, of being other than
they really were; all objects in the world were masked and false; even
his own thoughts became disguised in masks. The whole world was merely
the delusion of _Duke Lorenzo_, who moved about the earth in an eternal
mask. Both _Man_ and _Lorenzo_ are the victims not of outward conditions,
but of their own inner experiences.
It is only on the basis of this general theory of the modern theatre that
we can understand either “The Life of Man” or “The Black Maskers.” But
once having accepted this theory we see how baseless are the contentions
of Andreyeff’s critics. They condemn the external form of such plays as
“The Life of Man,” which Russian society had universally understood,
appreciated, and approved. In framing a play with a new kind of content,
Andreyeff instinctively selected new outer forms to correspond. These
forms, though intelligible to the public, were incomprehensible to the
critics, reared, as they have been for decades, on the dramatic forms of
Ostrovski’s school.
Consistent with the alterations that have taken place in the drama,
Andreyeff calls the old theatre the theatre of “make-believe,” as
distinguished from the theatre panpsyche, which he calls the theatre
of the _truth_. He goes even farther and affirms that the motto of
all future art will be “truth in art.” When the modern “psychological”
novelist or dramatist brings his heroes on the stage, are they the
product of the “_play_ of his fancy”? asks Andreyeff. “No,” he replies,
“he experiences them, lives them, creates them, fashions them, any word
you choose; only do not use the word ‘play.’” For play is something
entirely different and distinct from the artistic process of creating
new beings, which is the basis of the dramatist-psychologist’s art. Play
is pretence; and the more refined, cunning, and beautiful, the better it
is as play: but psychological creating is truth; and the plainer, the
more sincere, the more severe it is, and the farther it is removed from
pretence, so much greater will be its artistic value.
“The Life of Man,”[7] when staged, was condemned by the critics on the
ground of excessive symbolism and allegory.[8] The author, paying as he
did scant heed to the details of daily life that surround the hero of
the play and his wife, concentrated all his attention on the conception
of _Man_ and the life of _Man_. The symbolism employed is very old and
familiar—patent, in fact—and is a minor element in the drama. As a matter
of fact, this method of picturing human life has long been current among
the masses of the Russian people. They picture life either as a candle
which blazes up through some mysterious power and finally goes out, or
in the form of steps, represented in a crudely drawn picture, in which
man is depicted from birth till death. In the first half of life—till
middle age—he mounts to the summit, then begins to descend the stairs,
and finally he reaches old age and his predestined end—death. It is
this crude popular conception that Andreyeff takes as the basis of his
symbolism; and this selection of a basal motive from the life of the
common people is that very truth in art of which Andreyeff speaks, for
behind this picture lies the deeply rooted faith of the people in life,
and in Fate as the guide of life.
The _Man_ whom Andreyeff depicts is an extreme individualist whose whole
life is centred upon himself and his own interests, who judges all other
persons and all things from the point of view of his own personality.
He has made himself the centre of the universe. Nor in this case is
fate a mere subjective principle holding sway over man. It is something
entirely different. Professor Reisner, in his work entitled “Andreyeff
and His Philosophy of Life,” says on this point: “Once man has become
the foundation of social life, all connecting boundaries and points of
contact heretofore existing between him and nature disappear. He is not
merely left in isolation, but about him is formed a desert—a vast, social
chasm, and the great principle called the law of life now has no means of
coming into contact with the naked individual. When this stage has been
reached, principles of law and order can find justification only from the
point of view of the individual. As soon as the individual has become
the unit of society, and the centre of all interests, the aims of this
unit must be accepted by it as the aims of the universe, its reason must
be accepted as the world reason, and with it the fate of the universe is
born and perishes. But if the individual cannot thus establish a direct
bond between his personal existence and the law of nature, there results
the great tragedy: _Personality renounces the world._”
_Man_, the hero of “The Life of Man,” failed from the very first to
establish this bond. In his earlier years of poverty he found the meaning
of life in the struggle for existence, in dreams of wealth, distinction,
and fame. He dreamed even of becoming recognised as a genius. But his
dreams all ended in selfish visions of a wonderful villa on the Norwegian
coast, where on stormy winter nights he and his wife might find rest and
repose in the cheery warmth of the huge fireplace “that burned whole
logs.” In the ball of Man the hero reaches the summit of life. Observe
the feeling of dignified self-importance with which _Man_ enters the
presence of his guests, his wife leaning upon his arm. He is rich and
famous. His guests are filled with admiration for the wealth and luxury
of his life, and for his wide-spread fame. But listen! The strains of
the polka, hollow and empty, the insipid, soulless dance of the guests
and their petty remarks reveal all the tragedy of the petty and empty
life of this richest and most famous of men—the profound tragedy that
lies in the solitude of _Man_ and in the solitude of each and every one
of his guests. The egoistic laws of life followed by the _Friends_ and
the _Enemies_ of _Man_ hang like a pall over the empty but ominous ball.
Like evil forebodings on the eve of death, they reveal all the vanity
of human life. In the ball of _Man_, which sums up the entire life of
both _Man_ and his guests, one does not feel the presence of the great
cosmic bond between man and the laws of the universe; but the laws that
guide the base _Friends_ and _Enemies_ of _Man_ have brought together
here the doomed, and among them the chief of the doomed, _Man_ himself,
proud, noted, and wealthy; while in the background, seeming to be a part
even of the grey wall, is the _Being in Grey_ (whether God, Fate, or the
Devil, _Man_ himself knows not), invisible and frightful in his coldness
and indifference, following persistently every step of _Man’s_ life—the
_Being in Grey_, in whose hand is burning—burning out—the candle
that symbolises the meaning of the life of this man who has failed to
establish a bond between his personal existence and the laws of nature.
The beginning and the end of his life are concealed in darkness. “Dragged
on irresistibly by time, he will tread inevitably all the steps of human
life, upward toward its summit and downward to its end.”[9] Still more
definitely the _Being in Grey_ speaks of the meaning of the life of
_Man_: “Limited in vision, he will not see the step to which his unsure
foot is already raising him. Limited in knowledge, he will never know
what the coming day or hour or moment is bringing to him. And in his
blind ignorance, worn by apprehensions, harassed by hopes and fears, he
will complete submissively the iron round of destiny.”
The “iron round of destiny” is the tragedy of _Man_, conditioned by
the strife between the intellect and the emotions, with its attendant
sufferings and joys in the case of a man whose strivings toward harmony
and order are doomed to clash with the primeval chaos.[10]
The tragedy of _Lorenzo_ in “The Black Maskers” is of the same sort.
“My soul is an enchanted castle. When the sun shines into the lofty
windows, with its golden rays it weaves golden dreams. When the sad moon
looks into the misty windows, in its silvery beams are silvery dreams,”
says _Lorenzo_ of his own inner experiences. Yet in the midst of his
dreams _Lorenzo_ continually asks the question: “Who laughs? Who laughs
so gently at the sorrowful life of Lorenzo?” Such were also the dreams
of _Man_ and his wife, when their distress was soothed for a moment
by prayer, and when for a time they had faith in the _Being in Grey_.
“_Man_, flattered by his hopes, has fallen into a deep and grateful
sleep.... He dreams that he is riding with his son in a white boat over a
beautiful smooth river.... He hears the reeds rustle as they part before
the boat. He is filled with joy and he fancies that he is blessed. All
_Man’s_ emotions are deceiving him. But suddenly he becomes restless. The
terrible truth, penetrating the dense veil of his dreams, has seared his
thought: ‘Why is your golden hair cut so short, my boy; why is it?’ ‘My
head ached, father, and that is why my hair was cut so short.’ And, again
deceived, man is happy, and he sees the blue sky and hears the reeds
rustling as they part.”[11] At the very moment when in sleep his thoughts
joyously take wing, misfortune draws close to him; while he sleeps and in
his visions finds rest and respite from the iron round of destiny, his
son is already dead; so awaking from his dreams he has no course left
but to curse the _Being in Grey_. Of this _Being Man_ begs not for mercy
or for pity, but “only for justice.” To this same being _Lorenzo_ turns
with the prayer: “Who laughs? Who laughs so frightfully at the insane
Lorenzo? Have pity on me, O Monarch! My soul is filled with terror! O
Monarch, O Lord of the World!—Satan!” _Man_ asks no longer for mercy,
but only for justice; _Lorenzo_ still believes in mercy, and asks for
pity. Why the difference? Is not the tragedy of their lives the same? The
author himself answers the question by the entire subject-matter of these
similar yet different plays. The soul of _Man_, though tortured, still
remains intact in the presence of the _Being in Grey_, and he perishes
cursing the blind power of Fate; but the soul of _Lorenzo_ is rent in
twain and his tragedy is the more intense, because Fate, Destiny, God, or
the devil is transformed from a vague primordial being into the double of
the duke _Lorenzo_. In “The Life of Man” fate appears in the form of an
objective principle, a power outside of man; in “The Black Maskers” this
same fate has entered, as it were, into the flesh and blood of _Lorenzo_,
has become a part of his essence, that is, it has become subjective in
the fullest sense of the word. _Lorenzo_ considered his life good and
beautiful, but having invited his masked guests to his ball he discovered
the falseness of his life. In the place of one wife he saw three; in
the place of one _Duke Lorenzo_ he suddenly encountered at the ball his
double. Then appeared also the black maskers, the personification of
the darkness of life and the mysterious dark instincts of man. At this
point began a new life for _Lorenzo_, and he himself became new, that
is, demented. With his doubt as to his parentage—whether he was the son
of his father or of a filthy stable-man, his mother’s paramour—began
the dark, insane life of _Lorenzo_, and he perished in darkness and was
burned in his castle, which was set on fire by the jester.
In the midst of the storm of adverse criticism—including such
characterisation as “unheard-of horrors,” “disregard of real life,”
“excessive symbolism”—that greeted the first appearance of “The Black
Maskers” at the theatre of Komisarzhevskaia, in 1908, very few critics
succeeded in making any close approach to a true interpretation of the
drama, either in its subject-matter or its form. Yet all were intensely
interested, and throngs of “interviewers” made their way to Andreyeff,
at his country home in Finland, to learn what he intended in this drama
to represent. The author, of course, found it impossible to explain
his own creation, but eagerly discussed the symbolic form of this and
other plays. “Critics are a strange people,” said Andreyeff to one of
his interviewers. “They wonder why I write certain things in a peculiar
style. The explanation is very simple: every work should be written in
the style which it demands. ‘King Hunger’ could not be written without
symbolism; ‘The Seven who were Hanged’ could be written only in realistic
tones. Tchekoff—the dear, delightful, sensitive Tchekoff, who was always
so cautious and considerate in his utterances—finding himself once in
a circle of intimate friends and hearing the name of Ibsen mentioned,
blurted out: ‘Ibsen’s a fool!’ If Tchekoff did not understand Ibsen’s
symbolism, could not grasp it, shall I be offended when the critics
assail my writings? Eleven years have past since I published my first
story. For ten years I have written as I felt. I am not the slave of
either symbolism or realism, but they are my servants—now the one, now
the other, according to my theme. In the future also I must continue
to write as I am able.” Not confining himself to the elucidation of
the outer forms of his dramas, Andreyeff gives a direct key to the
understanding of his “Black Maskers” in “My Diary,” published in 1908,
two or three months before the writing of “The Black Maskers.” The
hero of that sketch, an old man who has been immured in a prison since
early manhood, writes in his diary: “Every man, as I afterward came to
see and understand, was like that rich and distinguished gentleman who
arranged a gorgeous masquerade in his castle and illuminated his castle
with lights; and thither came from far and wide strange masks, whom he
welcomed with courteous greetings, though ever with the vain inquiry:
‘Who are you?’ And new masks arrived ever stranger and more horrible.”
To this description the prisoner adds, as a foot-note to his diary: “The
castle is the soul; the lord of the castle is man, the master of the
soul; the strange, black maskers are the powers whose field of action is
the soul of man, and whose mysterious nature he can never fathom.” These
beings bring into the soul darkness and death, extinguishing the light
of life. The “simple” maskers, the guests of _Lorenzo_, are ordinary
people; yet even these are transformed and lose their real semblances
and, like the black maskers, they become mysterious, incomprehensible,
and terrifying to _Lorenzo_, who fails to understand them as he fails to
understand his own soul. _Lorenzo’s_ mind becomes clouded, his own soul
becomes repulsive to him, he seems strange to himself. Though he longs
to accept his own soul as his own, yet the ugliness, the repulsiveness,
of that which he sees within it checks his resolve to do so, and his
soul becomes two souls—_Lorenzo_ becomes two _Lorenzos_. Before him he
sees his double—his horrible, disgusting, false double—and incensed with
anger he draws his sword and slays it. Recall the uncanny scene in which
the servants, friends, and wife of _Lorenzo_ come to bid farewell to the
remains of the dead duke, while the duke himself—his other half—stands in
the shadow at the head of the bier and observes how they greet the cold
corpse of himself. The duality of soul, the duality of personality, has
led to the final tragedy of the duke—insanity.
But at this point the author willed that a new transformation of
_Lorenzo_ should occur. When the castle, fired by _Ecco_, the jester, is
in flames, _Lorenzo_, falling upon his knees, calls upon all present to
pay homage to the being who is now revealed to his soul, darkened though
it be by insanity. “Uncover, gentlemen; it is the Lord God, the Ruler of
heaven and earth. On your knees, knights and ladies!” But one conclusion
can logically be drawn. _Lorenzo_, passing through this duality of
personality and slaying his double, _i. e._, renouncing the dark and evil
elements of his soul, has attained to the knowledge of God and perishes
at the moment of attainment.
And the general inference to be drawn from the two plays? Man in
Andreyeff’s view is in the hands of fate; whether it appears as the
effect upon him of his environment, or manifests itself in the joys,
sorrows, temptations, doubts, and struggles of man with his rejoicing,
sorrowing, aspiring, doubting, struggling soul. Man is, as it were,
condemned to inevitable suffering, and only through suffering can he
hope to attain to perfection. Such was the case of _Duke Lorenzo_, whose
death brought him a vision of God. In this sense Andreyeff resembles
Tolstoi and Dostoevski. The former called upon man to achieve perfection
through suffering; the latter admonished man to reject the problems
of personality for the sake of perfection. But Andreyeff differs from
both Tolstoi and Dostoevski. Recall how the hero of “The Life of Man,”
despairing of his personal welfare, curses the invisible Being who
directs the life of man: “I know not who you are, God, the devil, Fate,
or Life, but I curse you! I curse all that you have given me! I curse
the day on which I was born! I curse the day on which I shall die! I
curse my whole life, my joys and my grief! I curse myself! I curse my
eyes, my ears, my tongue! I curse my heart, my head! And I hurl all back
into your cruel face, senseless Fate! Be accursed, be accursed forever!
Through my curse I rise victorious above you. What more can you do with
me? Hurl me upon the ground; yes, hurl me down! I shall only laugh and
cry out: ‘Be accursed!’ ... Over the head of the woman you have offended,
over the body of the boy whom you have killed, I hurl upon you the curse
of Man.” _Duke Lorenzo_, whose timid soul is rent in twain, calls upon
us to worship God; _Man_, whose soul is still intact and unreconciled,
curses him who directs both birth and death. Such are the fundamental
differences between the two plays.
The third play included in the present volume differs markedly from the
other two in its form, its content, and its purpose as conceived by
Andreyeff. It transports the author from the field of the universal
problems of life to the particular conditions of contemporary political
life in Russia. It is a satire on the Constitutional-Democratic party.
This party is not “legalised” in Russia, and is considered an opposition
party both in the Duma and in the country at large. Notwithstanding
their repute, however, the “Kadets,” as they are called for short, being
composed of individuals representing both progressive and conservative
elements of society, have a mixed character, which serves to distinguish
them from both the socialistic and the populistic parties. Naturally this
dual character is clearly reflected in their political activities.
Assuming that in general the subject-matter of the play will be clear
to the reader, we will limit ourselves to a few explanations that will
enable the reader to appreciate the keenness of Andreyeff’s satire.
The crude Romans, the abductors of the fair Sabine women, represent
the Russian administration of the period of the reaction. The Sabine
women are the constitutional “promises” wrung from the government by
the revolution of 1905 and 1906. The Sabine husbands represent the
Constitutional-Democratic party, who strive by strictly legal methods
to preserve these promised constitutional guarantees. The political
programme of the Kadets is especially satirised in the second act, at
the point when the injured husbands are preparing to march on Rome to
liberate their wives. _Ancus Martius_ instructs them to march by taking
two steps forward and one step backward. The two forward steps are
designed to indicate “the unquenchable fire of our stormy souls, the firm
will, the irresistible advance. The step backward symbolises the step of
reason, the step of experience and the mature mind.... In taking it we
maintain a close bond with tradition, with our ancestors, with our great
past.” This is the “progressive-conservative” programme of the Kadets.
They failed to gain a victory over their political opponents; or, if they
did win a victory, it was just such a victory as that won by the Sabines
over the Romans.
In concluding, let us remind the reader that our interpretation of these
three plays has been very brief, as has been also our exposition of
Andreyeff’s views on the theatre. We have set forth but a small fraction
of Andreyeff’s rich contributions to Russian social thought. Above all,
the reader should understand that Andreyeff paints Russian life in true
colours, and to know his works is to know contemporary Russia.
V. V. BRUSYANIN.
PETROGRAD, October, 1914.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Since Mr. Brusyanin, the author of this introductory essay, is a
literary critic of note, and at the same time a personal friend of
Andreyeff, the essay has the unique value of being an authoritative
statement of Andreyeff’s own views.
[2] Ostrovski is regarded as the founder of the modern realistic drama in
Russia. His literary career extended from 1850 to 1886.
[3] It is interesting to note that the plays of Andreyeff were staged by
the same Moscow theatre which introduced Tchekoff to the public.
[4] Republished in 1914 in the _Almenakh Shipovnik_ along with another
letter on the same subject.
[5] Literally, “all soul,” or “all thought.”
[6] All the plays of Ostrovski are marked by conspicuous external action,
which is often prejudicial to dramatic truth and inconsistent with the
principle of realism.
[7] “The Life of Man,” published in 1906, was the first symbolic drama
written in Russia. Later followed Andreyeff’s symbolic dramas, “King
Hunger” (the representation of which was forbidden by the censor), “The
Black Maskers,” “Anatema” (which was taken from the stage on petition
of the Moscow clergy), and “The Ocean,” which, owing to technical
difficulties of inscenation, was never staged.
[8] To appreciate the force of the above criticism the reader must recall
that for about a century the Russian public has been accustomed to read
only the most realistic form of literature.
[9] See Prologue.
[10] This definition of life is given by Andreyeff in the study published
variously under the titles “My Diary” and “Our Prison.”
[11] “The Life of Man,” Act IV.
CONTENTS
PAGE
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE vii
THE SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OF ANDREYEFF, AN ESSAY
BY V. V. BRUSYANIN xi
THE BLACK MASKERS 1
THE LIFE OF MAN 65
THE SABINE WOMEN 157
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF ANDREYEFF 197
THE BLACK MASKERS
CAST OF CHARACTERS
LORENZO, _Duke of Spadaro_
ECCO, _a jester_
DONNA FRANCESCA, _wife of Lorenzo_
SIGNOR CRISTOFORO, _steward of the wine-cellar_
SIGNOR PETRUCCIO, _overseer_
GENTLEMEN and LADIES _of the ducal suite_
MASKERS, _invited by the Duke_
BLACK MASKERS, _uninvited_
ROMUALDO, _a singer_
MUSICIANS
SERVANTS
PEASANTS
ACT I
SCENE I
_A luxurious, newly decorated hall in an ancient feudal
castle. The walls are adorned with frescoes and hung with
paintings blackened with age. Here and there are weapons and
statues. The whole room, though brilliant with gold and with
bright-coloured mosaics, is delicately tinted by light falling
through coloured glass. At the left and in the rear are three
semi-Gothic windows half concealed by heavy, gold-embroidered
curtains. The rear wall, turning back at a right angle at the
centre of the stage, recedes to a row of paired columns which
support the upper part of the building. Behind these columns is
a spacious, brightly illuminated entrance-hall. Massive double
entrance-doors are seen at the right. Directly in front of the
spectator, at the point where the rear wall begins to recede,
a broad marble staircase with a massive sculptured balustrade
ascends to the height of the columns, then, turning to the
right, leads to other apartments. The wall above the columns
is pierced by several small windows of coloured glass through
which comes a peculiar and brilliant light._
_The final, hasty preparations are going on for a masquerade
ball. The room is flooded with light from many chandeliers and
from strikingly beautiful candelabra and sconces. Several
servants in rich but uniform livery hurry from place to place,
lighting fresh candles or moving back the heavy armchairs to
give room for the dancers. Every now and then certain of them,
as if recalling something left undone, rush up-stairs or to the
entry doors, the firm, business-like voice of the overseer,
SIGNOR PETRUCCIO, redoubling their haste and their emulation.
Both the overseer and the servants are in high spirits, and the
latter, as they come and go, exchange lively jests and quick,
fleeting smiles. The gayest of all, however, is young LORENZO,
the reigning Duke of Spadaro. Well formed, refined of feature,
a little languid in manner, but courteous and kindly toward
every one, he lightly moves about the hall, all aglow with the
joy of anticipation, giving orders, jesting, and urging on the
servants, now with cheering words and now with gestures of
feigned anger. As he goes he casts happy smiles upon his young
wife, the beautiful DONNA FRANCESCA, who responds with tender
and loving glances. Several ladies and gentlemen, forming
the suite of the Duke and Duchess, are also busily engaged,
some, like the young Duke, joyfully and eagerly preparing for
the reception of the expected guests, others, under cover of
the happy confusion, exchanging fond glances, slyly pressing
one another’s hands, and whispering boldly and quickly into
blushing ears. In an upper room somewhere musicians are making
ready for the ball, and fragments of musical airs are heard.
Suddenly some one begins to sing in a rich baritone, but the
song quickly passes over into laughter. Apparently, it is jolly
there, too._
_On a rug before a blazing fire the Duke’s dog, a huge Saint
Bernard, dozes in an attitude of luxurious abandon. Seated near
the foot of the stairway, ECCO, the Duke’s jester, imitates
the Duke’s voice and by his orders causes laughable confusion._
PETRUCCIO. Keep up that speed a little longer, Mario, and you’ll be your
own grandfather. Hurry, man, hurry!
MARIO. Why, Signor Petruccio, the Duke’s best horse doesn’t get over the
ground as fast as I do.
A SERVANT. When the flies sting.
ANOTHER SERVANT. Or the whip flicks.
PETRUCCIO. Come! lively, there, lively!
LORENZO. This way! More candles here! Don’t you see how dark this corner
is? No darkness, Signor Petruccio, no darkness!
A GENTLEMAN. [_To a lady_] There! They have driven us out of our last
refuge. But I shall kiss you yet.
THE LADY. In the dark it will be hard to find me.
THE GENTLEMAN. In the dark I shall spread my arms wide and embrace the
whole night.
ANOTHER GENTLEMAN. You will make a rich haul, Signor Silvio.
ECCO. [_Calling out_] Mario! Carlo! Pietro! Quick! Hold a candle under
this gentleman’s nose. The darkness frightens him out of his wits.
FRANCESCA. [_To the Duke, affectionately_] My dear! my love! my divinity!
How charming your new costume is! You are like a shaft of sunlight flung
through the lofty window of our cathedral. Your divine beauty fills me
with adoration.
LORENZO. You are a delicate blossom, Francesca. You are a delicate
blossom, and the sun, when it kisses you, is overbold. [_He kisses her
hand with profound respect and tenderness, but suddenly, in mock terror,
calls to the overseer_] But the tower, Petruccio, the tower! If you
have forgotten to illuminate the tower I will have you impaled like an
unbaptised Turk.
PETRUCCIO. The tower is illuminated, sir.
LORENZO. Illuminated? How dare you say so? It should blaze, it should
sparkle, it should rise toward the dark heavens like a huge tongue of
fire.
ECCO. Tut! Tut! Lorenzo. Don’t show your tongue to heaven or heaven will
answer you with a fig.
LORENZO. My dear little fellow, you mustn’t annoy me with your jokes. I
am looking forward to a feast of light, and your barbed shafts wound me
to the soul. No darkness, Ecco, no darkness!
ECCO. Then you must light up your wife’s tresses. They are too dark,
Lorenzo, too dark. And put a torch in each of her eyes. They are too
dark, Lorenzo, too dark.
FRANCESCA. Wretch! Here are so many beautiful ladies—can’t one of you win
the affections of this miserable jester?
FIRST LADY. He’s a hunchback.
SECOND LADY. If he should try to kiss me, his nose would prick me like a
sword.
GENTLEMAN. Your heart, madam, would turn the edge of any sword.
_Enter a gentleman, tall and thin as a pole, the image of Don
Quixote. His moustaches droop and seem to be continually wet.
He turns gloomily to the Duke._
CRISTOFORO. I have a shocking piece of news to impart to you, Signor.
LORENZO. What is it? You alarm me, Signor Cristoforo.
CRISTOFORO. I have reason to believe, sir, that we shall run short
of both Cyprian and Falernian. These gentlemen [_pointing with his
forefinger to the Duke’s attendants_] drink wine as camels in the desert
drink water.
ONE OF THE SUITE. Signor Cristoforo, why are your moustaches always wet?
CRISTOFORO. [_With dignity_] It is my duty, sir, to test all the wines.
LORENZO. [_Cheerfully_] My good friend, you exaggerate the danger. Our
cellars are inexhaustible.
CRISTOFORO. [_Insistently_] They drink wine like camels. Your happy mood
pleases me, Signor, but you take things too light-heartedly. When your
sainted father and I set out to deliver the Holy Sepulchre——
LORENZO. [_Gently reproaching him_] My dear old friend, you surely are
not going to spoil, with your mumbling and grumbling, this delightful
evening.
CRISTOFORO. [_Good-naturedly_] Well, well, my boy, don’t be angry.
[_Threateningly_] Ho, there! Manucci! Filippo! After me!
[_Exit._
LORENZO. But the roadway, Signor Petruccio! Heaven punish you! The
roadway! You have forgotten to illuminate the roadway, and our friends
will not be able to find us.
PETRUCCIO. The roadway is illuminated, Signor.
LORENZO. Illuminated? Your tongue is like a jaded nag. When the spurs
prick its flanks it can only switch its tail. The whole road must
sparkle. It must blaze with lights like the road to paradise. Understand
me, Sir Overseer. The shades of the cypresses should flee in terror to
the mountains where sleep the dragons. Do you lack torches and helpers?
Do you lack kegs of pitch?
ECCO. If pitch is lacking, Petruccio, you had better go borrow it in
hell. Satan will lend it to you on your personal security.
ONE OF THE SERVANTS. He would have fetched some thence before this but
that he feared there would not be enough left to keep him warm.
SECOND SERVANT. Signor Petruccio is so chilly.
PETRUCCIO. Lively, there, lively!
FRANCESCA. [_To the Duke_] You forget me, Lorenzo. Though you light up
everything, yet I, unless you smile upon me, am left in darkness. Do the
masks interest you so much?
LORENZO. So much, my dear, that I am dying with impatience. There will
be flowers and serpents, Francesca. There will be flowers, and serpents
among the flowers. There will be a dragon, Francesca. A dragon will come
crawling to us, Francesca, and you will see real fire issuing from his
jaws. It will be great fun. But don’t be afraid. It’s all in jest. It’s
all just our friends, and we shall have a glorious laugh over it. Why
don’t they come?
A SERVANT. [_Hurrying in_] I was watching from the tower, and I saw
something moving along the road, Signor. It looks like a black serpent
crawling among the cypresses.
LORENZO. [_Joyfully_] They’re coming. They’re coming.
ANOTHER SERVANT. [_Running in_] I was watching from the tower, and I saw
a dragon crawling toward us. I saw red fire gleaming from its eyes, and I
was frightened, Signor.
LORENZO. [_Joyfully_] They’re coming. They’re coming. Do you hear,
Petruccio?
PETRUCCIO. Everything is ready, Signor.
THIRD SERVANT. [_Running in_] There is shouting and commotion at the
drawbridge, Signor. They are demanding admittance. I heard the clash of
weapons, sir.
LORENZO. [_Angrily_] What! The drawbridge not down? Is that the way to
receive my guests, Petruccio? To-morrow I discharge you, if you——
PETRUCCIO. Pardon me, sir. I will run. [_Runs out._
LORENZO. They have come! Smile, Francesca! They have come!
ECCO. [_Laughs very loudly_] Yes, let’s laugh, Lorenzo. We must limber up
our jaws. [_Yawns._
LORENZO. But the musicians! Good Heavens! Where are the musicians? Has
that dunce forgotten all my directions?
FRANCESCA. Don’t be angry, my dear. The musicians are in readiness.
LORENZO. But why are they not here?
FRANCESCA. See, now, my love, you compel me to let out the secret. They
intended to surprise you. The musicians also are to appear in masks.
LORENZO. And I shall not recognise them? Oh, that is charming! And
who planned this surprise? Ah, it was you, it was you, Signora. I can
read it in your sly, smiling eyes. But the music! Surely they have not
forgotten to learn the piece I composed for them. Oh, this fat rascal of
a Petruccio! I shall certainly have to impale him.
ECCO. How indiscreet of you, Lorenzo! Petruccio will steal the stake and
run away with it.
LORENZO. Oh! Now I think of it, Ecco, just a word with you before they
come. My dear fellow, you may mock me as much as you please; I understand
your humour and I like it. But don’t, I beg of you, offend my guests.
You must not be malicious, Ecco, even in sport. You have a tender heart,
my little hunchback, and you are not ill-natured. Why, then, do you
sting people with your jests? Laugh. Entertain my guests. Make yourself
agreeable to the ladies—and here you may go far—but do not irritate any
one. To-day is my day, Ecco.
A SERVANT. [_Flinging open the doors_] They are at the door, Signor.
LORENZO. I’m coming. I’m coming. Call the musicians!
_Commotion in the hall. Several MASKERS appear. The costumes
are such as are common at masquerades—harlequins, pierrots,
Saracens, Turkish men and women, and animals and flowers. But
all the faces are concealed under heavy, closely fitting masks.
The MASKERS enter in profound silence and respond to the Duke’s
courteous greetings with silent bows._
LORENZO. [_Bowing low and courteously_] I thank you, ladies and
gentlemen. I am happy to greet you in my castle. Pardon the carelessness
of my overseer in failing to lower the drawbridge and thus causing you
some delay. I am greatly mortified, ladies and gentlemen.
A MASKER. [_In a muffled voice_] We arrived just the same. We got in, did
we not, gentlemen?
SECOND MASKER. We got in.
THIRD MASKER. We got in.
_Strange, muffled laughter from behind the heavy masks._
LORENZO. I am delighted to find you in such good spirits, ladies and
gentlemen. From this moment my castle is yours.
A MASKER. Yes, it is ours. It is ours.
_The same strange, muffled laughter._
LORENZO. [_Looking about gaily_] But I do not recognise any one. It is
amazing, gentlemen, but I do not recognise a single soul. Is this you,
Signor Basilio? It seems to me that I recognise your voice.
A VOICE. Signor Basilio is not here.
ANOTHER VOICE. Signor Basilio is not here. Signor Basilio is dead.
LORENZO. [_Laughing_] That’s a good joke. Signor Basilio dead? Why, he is
as much alive as I am.
A MASKER. Are you, then, alive?
LORENZO. [_Impatiently, but with great courtesy_] Let us leave Death in
peace, gentlemen.
A VOICE. Ask Death to leave you in peace. What need of peace has he?
LORENZO. Who said that? Was it you, Signor Sandro? [_Laughing_] I
recognise you, sir, by your melancholy. But cheer up, my gloomy friend.
See how many lights there are, how many beautiful, living lights.
A MASKER. Signor Sandro is not here. Signor Sandro is dead.
_The same strange, muffled laughter. Other MASKERS arrive._
LORENZO. Yes, yes. Now I understand. [_Laughing_] All of us are dead.
Signor Basilio is dead; Signor Sandro is dead; I am dead. Excellent! I
congratulate you, gentlemen, on your extremely interesting jest. Still,
I should like to know who you are— Ah, here come others! Greetings, my
dear guests— What a strange costume! Why are you all in red, and what is
the meaning of this hideous black snake that is twined about you? I trust
it is not alive, Signora. If it were I should pity your poor heart into
which it has so ruthlessly struck its fangs.
THE RED MASKER. [_With a muffled laugh_] Do you not recognise me, Lorenzo?
LORENZO. [_Joyously_] Is it you, Signora Emilia? But no, Signora Emilia
is not so tall as you, and her voice is fuller and softer.
THE RED MASKER. I am your heart, Lorenzo.
LORENZO. Exquisite! I am sincerely delighted, my friends, that I invited
you for this evening. You are so witty. However, you mistake, madam. This
is not my heart. There is no serpent in my heart.
ANOTHER MASKER. Is not this your heart, Lorenzo?
LORENZO. [_Starting back, but controlling himself_] You frighten me,
sir, coming so unexpectedly from behind. What? This hairy black spider;
this repulsive monster on thin, wavering legs; those dull, greedy, cruel
eyes—this my heart? No, Signor, my heart is full of love and welcome.
Within my heart all is as radiant as is this castle, which greets you so
joyously, my strange guests.
THE SPIDER. Lorenzo, Lorenzo, let us go and catch flies. In a spider-web
in the tower yonder something has long been entangled and awaits you. Let
us go, Lorenzo. Would you not like some fresh blood?
LORENZO. [_Laughing_] In my castle there is no spider-web. In my tower
there is none of that darkness which is necessary to such loathsome
creatures as you, my strange guest. But who are you?
THE RED MASKER. Lorenzo, the serpent is restless. It is trying to sting
me, Lorenzo. Oh, the pain, the terror of it! Stroke its head, Lorenzo. It
has such a beautiful, smooth head, and you see it is not alive. Soothe
it, Lorenzo.
_Muffled laughter._
LORENZO. [_Falling in with the jest and cautiously stroking the serpent_]
When the devil tempts he takes the form of a serpent. But you, of course,
are not the devil. You are only a mock serpent, only a mock serpent.
[_Hastily_] But, gentlemen, is it not time to dance? The musicians, I
presume, have long been waiting impatiently. Petruccio!
A MASKER. [_Approaching him_] What does your Grace command?
LORENZO. Pardon me, sir. I did not call to you. I was summoning my
overseer. Petruccio!
THE MASKER. I am Petruccio.
LORENZO. [_Laughing_] Oh, so it is you, you fat old rascal. You, too,
have taken a notion to join the sport. And I didn’t recognise you. Well,
that is very neat. Come, now, tell me— But where are you? Petruccio!
Petruccio! Really, I shall have to impale this fat rascal. Hello, there,
somebody! Manucci! Pietro!
FIRST MASKER. Did you call me, sir?
SECOND MASKER. Did you call me, sir?
LORENZO. [_Perplexed_] No, I did not call you. [_Grasping the situation
and laughing_] Ah, yes, I see. My good fellows, how dare you mingle with
the guests?
FIRST MASKER. They told us to.
SECOND MASKER. They told us to.
LORENZO. [_Good-humouredly clapping one of the MASKERS on the shoulder_]
Quite right. I was only fooling. Let us all be merry on this glorious
night—But isn’t it odd that I do not recognise any one—positively not a
soul—? Why, I’ve lost my servants again. Mario! Pietro—! Now, really,
Signor, isn’t that strange? I have lost all my servants.
A MASKER. [_Turning to the others_] Gentlemen, Lorenzo has mislaid his
servants.
_Loud laughter, the MASKERS bowing with mock courtesy._
A VOICE. But where is your suite, Lorenzo?
LORENZO. [_Looking about and smiling_] I see nothing but masks. Here’s an
interesting situation, gentlemen. Mine being the only real face, I am the
only person about whom there can be no mistake.
_Renewed laughter._
A VOICE. We are now your suite, Lorenzo.
SECOND VOICE. We are now your suite, Duke. What are your instructions?
_Laughter._
LORENZO. [_Very affably, but with dignity_] It is delightful, gentlemen,
to find you in such merry vein. I am overjoyed at your charming jest.
But I should be deeply offended if you really took my servants’ place—
Mario!
_Other MASKERS come up. On most of them the tight-fitting
masks are replaced by painted faces. The women, however, as
before, wear masks of coloured silk. The painted faces of the
newcomers are hideous and revolting. Among them are corpses,
cripples, and deformed persons. A grey, helpless creature with
long legs moves about, frequently coughing and groaning. Seven
humpbacked, wrinkled old women run in, in Indian file, capering
joyfully and beating castanets._
LORENZO. [_Bowing courteously_] I have pleasure, my dear guests, in
welcoming you to my castle. From this moment it is entirely at your
service. Ah, what a charming procession! Tell me, my beauties, where is
your bridegroom, the devil?
FIRST OLD WOMAN. [_Running up to LORENZO_] He is at our heels.
SECOND OLD WOMAN. [_Running up to LORENZO_] He is at our heels.
THE TALL GREY CREATURE. [_Bending down to the Duke and coughing_] Why did
you call me from my bed, Lorenzo?
LORENZO. [_Lightly_] And where is your bed, Signor?
THE TALL GREY CREATURE. In your heart, Lorenzo.
LORENZO. [_Cheerfully_] How they do slander my poor heart! I am pleased
to— [_Staggering back_] What an amazing disguise, Signor! I actually took
you for a corpse. Pray tell me the name of the talented artist who so
skilfully altered your features.
THE MASKER. Death.
LORENZO. Capital! But if you will permit me to say so, my dear guest, I
am sure I recognise in your make-up the beloved features of my friend,
Signor Sandro di Grada. Heavens, but you frightened me, my dear fellow!
These masks, these curious masks! Do you know, I can’t make out at all
who they are. Perhaps you can help me, Signor.
THE MASKER. It is dark, Lorenzo.
LORENZO. But I ordered an abundance of lights. We will have more of them.
Petruccio! Petruccio!
THE MASKER. It is cold, Lorenzo.
LORENZO. Cold? Why, to me it seems as hot here as hell itself. However,
if you are cold, my dear Sandro, pray come to the fire. Have a goblet of
wine. Ho, there, Petruccio! Lazybones!
_Several MASKERS, alike in appearance, run up at the same time
and answer almost in one voice._
THE MASKERS. At your service, Signor.
LORENZO. [_Not understanding_] Petruccio!
THE MASKERS. [_Together_] At your service, Signor. At your service.
LORENZO. [_Laughing_] Ah, I see! A moment ago I lost my servants, and now
I have lost my overseer. [_In comic terror_] But here is Signor Sandro
come shivering from his grave. Who will give him wine? Pardon me, Signor—
Why, he is already gone! Poor fellow! He wants to warm himself. How tired
I am! I should like a drop of wine myself. Signor Cristoforo! Has no one
seen Signor Cristoforo?
_A tall, thin MASKER approaches._
THE MASKER. Your orders, sir?
LORENZO. Is that you, my honest friend? I recognise you by your stature.
Bring me some wine. This receiving of my guests has wearied me.
THE MASKER. Something is wrong with our wine, Lorenzo. It has turned
as red as Satan’s blood, and it crazes the brain like the poison of a
serpent. Do not drink it, Lorenzo.
LORENZO. [_Laughing_] What could happen to our fine old wine? You have
tasted too much of it and your head is muddled.
THE MASKER. [_Insistently_] I have already seen several drunken guests,
Lorenzo. If it is honest wine, why should they be drunk?
LORENZO. Wine, you babbler, wine! [_Drinks the wine, but at the first
draught throws away the goblet_] What is this you have given me? It seems
as if the fires of hell were licking my throat and burning their way to
my very heart. Cristoforo—! Where is he? Pardon me, gentlemen, but really
something incomprehensible has happened to our wine— Ah, more maskers! I
am glad to greet you in my castle, my dear guests.
_While LORENZO, weariedly bowing ever lower, greets the strange
MASKERS that are coming in, a subdued hum of conversation fills
the hall._
FIRST MASKER. Whence do you come, Signor?
SECOND MASKER. From the night. And you, Signor, if you please?
FIRST MASKER. I also am from the night.
_They laugh. Two other MASKERS converse._
FIRST MASKER. He has drunk all my blood. There is not one healthy, living
spot left on my body. It is covered with blood and wounds.
SECOND MASKER. He kills those whom he loves.
FIRST MASKER. You know, of course, what is to happen to-day.
_They move away. Other MASKERS converse._
VARIOUS MASKERS:
—It was idle for Lorenzo to light up his castle so brilliantly. Did you
notice as we rode along that something was moving in the shadows of the
cypresses?
—I saw nothing but darkness.
—But are you not afraid of darkness?
—Why, I do not think there is anything in it for us to be afraid of. What
can the darkness do to us? But are you not sorry for this insane Lorenzo?
—I don’t know. Something, I assure you, was moving there.
—See how happy Lorenzo is. Isn’t it delightful to have such a cheerful
and nimble servant?
_They laugh. The masked musicians take their places in the
balcony. ECCO moves about among the legs of the dancers,
trying to peer under their masks and arousing laughter by his
unsuccessful attempts._
ECCO. Are you not from the swamps, Signor? It seems to me you are very
like the ague which for two months shook me as a dog shakes a rabbit.
_The TALL GREY CREATURE strikes a careless blow and ECCO falls._
ECCO. That’s a strange sort of joke! Here am I, the jester, on the verge
of tears, while you, at whom I should laugh, are smiling. Oh! who pinched
me? Was it you, Signora?
A BEAUTIFUL MASKER. Yes, it was I, Ecco.
ECCO. I observe, Signora, that a hump on the breast deforms a character
no less than a hump on the back.
_The BEAUTIFUL MASKER swiftly and silently strikes the jester
a blow with her dagger. The glittering edge glides across his
neck and the jester runs whimpering up the staircase and thence
clambers out onto one of the marble projections. Laughter._
_The musicians begin a wild melody in which are heard malicious
laughter, cries of agony and despair, and some one’s low, sad
plaining. The dance of the MASKERS is also strange and wild._
LORENZO. I am glad that you are merry, my friends. Though for my part I
am a little weary— But what sort of music is this? Heavens! how wild it
is and how it pierces one’s ears. Luigi, are you drunk or crazy? What are
you playing there with your band of disguised brigands. Pardon me, my
dear guests, this donkey Petruccio has spoiled everything.
A MASKER IN THE ORCHESTRA. We are playing what you gave us, sir.
LORENZO. [_Nettled_] You lie, Luigi. Lorenzo could not compose such
a hellish discord. I hear in it the wails of martyrs under merciless
torture. I hear in it the laughter of Satan.
THE OLD WOMEN. [_Running up with castanets_] The bridegroom is coming.
The bridegroom is coming. The bridegroom is coming.
LORENZO. Pardon me, my charming jesters, but I must first admonish this
bold-faced rascal, Luigi.
A MASKER IN THE ORCHESTRA. Luigi is not here, Signor.
LORENZO. Then who is speaking? Is that you, Stampa?
THE MASKER. No, it is another. We are playing only what you gave us,
Signor.
LORENZO. [_Laughing_] Ah, I see. The tones are masked. Capital! Do you
hear, ladies and gentlemen? To-day the very tones are masked. Really,
I was not aware that tones could put on such repulsive masks. Isn’t it
droll?
A VOICE. And you had never learned that, Lorenzo? How little you know.
ANOTHER VOICE. It’s certainly your own music, Duke.
A THIRD VOICE. But where are you yourself, Lorenzo?
_Laughter. The music continues. The old women with the
castanets run forward._
THE OLD WOMEN. The bridegroom is coming. The bridegroom. The bridegroom
is coming.
LORENZO. [_Bowing low_] I crave your pardon, my dear sir, for not
greeting you as I should, but there are so many persons here and I
recognise no one of them—positively not one. Just conceive of it—I do not
even recognise my own music. It’s extremely amusing, isn’t it?
A MASKER. But do you recognise yourself, Lorenzo?
LORENZO. Myself? [_Laughing_] To be sure. You see that I wear no mask—
But what is this?
_A strange procession moves slowly past the Duke. A young,
proud, and beautiful queen is led in by a half-drunken groom,
who embraces her. Before them walks a peasant nurse carrying in
her arms a misshapen infant, half animal, half man._
LORENZO. [_In great agitation_] What is the meaning of this, Signors?
Even under the disguise of masks such a union seems to me unseemly and
repulsive. And what is this that is borne before them? What a disgusting
mask!
A MASKER. The groom had intercourse with the queen and this is their
charming son. Make way for the queen’s son!
THE GROOM. [_Drunkenly_] Hey there! Knights! Crusaders! Out of the way!
Drive them off, my queen, or they will harm our precious son.
_Laughter._
VOICES. Way for the queen’s son!
LORENZO. [_Turning away much agitated_] I am not at all pleased with this
jest, Signors— Hello, Ecco, you rascally jester, why have you climbed up
there? Why are you not entertaining the company with your pleasantries?
ECCO. [_Weeping_] I am afraid of your guests, Lorenzo. They have hurt me.
Send them away, Lorenzo.
LORENZO. [_With rising anger_] Who has dared to affront you? It cannot
be. My honoured guests are too kind and courteous to injure any one.
It is more likely that you, you rascal, having given offence by your
malicious wit, are now shielding yourself from punishment.
ECCO. [_Weeping_] Your guests are fine people, Lorenzo. My hump is
swimming in blood. It is like a hilly island in the sea. Haven’t you a
little costume for me, Lorenzo? I, too, wish to put on a mask.
LORENZO. Come here.
_The jester, glancing about timorously, comes down to LORENZO._
ECCO. What do you wish? Speak quickly or I will run away. I am all in a
tremble.
LORENZO. I also am somewhat fearful, my dear Ecco. I don’t quite
understand what is going on. Who are these persons? I don’t recognise
one of them, and I think there are more than I invited. It’s strange.
Can’t you recognise anybody, Ecco? Their faces, to be sure, are covered,
but you are so good at recalling their bearing, voice, and figure. You,
perhaps, have recognised some one.
ECCO. Not a soul. Let me go, Lorenzo.
LORENZO. [_Sadly_] Do you, then, desert me, my dear Ecco?
ECCO. I am going to put on a mask.
LORENZO. Very well, my little hunchback. Go, if you are frightened. But
send Donna Francesca to me. Do you know where she is?
ECCO. She is up-stairs. Send them away, Lorenzo. I will run to summon
her. [_He goes up-stairs._
LORENZO. [_Addressing a newly arrived and very beautiful MASKER_]
Greetings, Signora. You are as entrancing as a vision. You are as
delicate as a silvery moonbeam, and I reverently bend my knee before you.
[_He sinks on one knee and respectfully kisses her hand, then rises_] I
see only the graceful outline of your figure and your little foot, but
permit me, my divinity, to be so bold as to look into your eyes. How they
shine! Even through the meshes of this black and hateful mask I see how
beautiful they are. Who are you, Signora? I do not know you.
THE MASKER. I am your falsehoods, Lorenzo.
LORENZO. [_Laughing_] Can a lie, then, be as beautiful as you are,
Signora? But you mistake. There are no lies in me. I hate a lie, my lady.
If you knew Lorenzo’s thoughts, his clear, pure thoughts—if you knew his
soul, which sings in the heavens as the lark sings in spring above the
flooding Arno— [_Frightened_] Ah, what’s this?
_Something formless and shapeless, with many arms and legs,
creeps up. It speaks with many voices._
THE THING. We are your thoughts, Lorenzo.
LORENZO. A bold jest! Still, you are my guests. I invited you——
THE THING. We are your overlords, Lorenzo. This castle is ours.
LORENZO. [_Clasping his head_] Oh, this horrible music! It is enough to
drive one mad. Luigi, or somebody there—I do not recognise any one—I beg
of you, I command you—play what I gave you. Unmask the tones. Don’t you
remember how beautiful the melody was that I composed? A little sad it
was, gentlemen, I confess. In truth, I often yield myself to a tender
and languorous melancholy. But it was so full of harmony, so pure, so
pellucid. If, perchance, you have forgotten it, Luigi, listen—I will
recall it to you. [_He begins singing a lovely melody. After the first
two measures, however, he takes up the air that the musicians are playing
and breaks off in alarm_] How absurd! You put me out, gentlemen. My
head is somewhat dizzy. Really, something was wrong with the wine. How
absurd, gentlemen! My brain seems to have turned to melted lead.
_Loud laughter._
A VOICE. Why did you break off, Lorenzo?
SECOND VOICE. Lorenzo is drunk. Lorenzo, Duke of Spadaro, is drunk.
_Laughter._
SECOND VOICE. We were ready to hear you, Lorenzo; we know what a great
artist you are.
THIRD VOICE. Sing, Lorenzo; we insist.
LORENZO. [_With dignity_] My friends— [_Frightened_] Ah, who are you? Who
touches me on the shoulder? Madam, the guests are all assembled, and you
are an intruder. I do not know you.
A BEAUTIFUL MASKER. It is I, my love.
LORENZO. Pardon me, madam, but only my wife, Donna Francesca, may address
me thus.
THE MASKER. [_Laughing softly_] Do you not know me, Lorenzo?
LORENZO. Something about you, my charming masker, reminds me of my wife.
But this black mask— Permit me to look into your eyes. Out of a million
women I should know my beloved by her eyes. [_He gazes into her eyes,
then laughs joyfully_] Francesca, my love, how you frightened me! Why
are you masked? You know— [_He leads her to one side and, pressing her
tightly to him, speaks almost in a whisper_] My dear, I am so weary, and
my heart pains me as if a serpent were stinging it. My thoughts are in
confusion. You have seen that frightful monster—look! Over yonder! It’s
in the corner now. It says it is my thoughts. But, Francesca, my dear, my
beloved, that is not true, is it?
THE MASKER. It is only a mask, Lorenzo.
LORENZO. [_Doubtfully_] Do you really think so, Signora? And will they
go, and shall we be left alone?
THE MASKER. Yes, we shall be left alone. [_Passionately_] And I shall
hold you so tightly, Lorenzo, that you will think I have never embraced
you before.
LORENZO. [_Absently_] Yes? I am very happy, my lady— But these masks—this
horrible Signor Sandro is painted so like a corpse as to deceive any
grave-digger. It seemed to me that I saw worms. I would not put on so
frightful, so revolting a mask even in jest.
THE MASKER. [_Frightened_] Signor Sandro? Why, Signor Sandro is really
dead. My dear, you have made a mistake.
LORENZO. [_Slowly_] Why do you mock at me, Francesca? If he were dead I
should have had notice of his death.
THE MASKER. And so you did, Lorenzo. You have forgotten, and you are
weary. Your hands are cold. I must kiss your hand, my love, even though
they are watching us.
_She kisses his hand. Another beautiful MASKER approaches from
behind and speaks in a loud voice._
THE SECOND MASKER. Lorenzo, did you send for me?
LORENZO. [_Horrified_] Francesca’s voice!
THE SECOND MASKER. Ecco said that you wished to see me.
LORENZO. Ecco? [_Slowly pushing away the MASKER whom he had embraced and
looking at her in horror_] But who are you, Signora? And how dared you
deceive me? I have done you honour—I have embraced you. [_He pushes her
away gently_] Leave me.
THE FIRST MASKER. [_Wringing her hands_] Lorenzo! Lorenzo! Would you
drive me away? What ails you, Lorenzo?
THE SECOND MASKER. [_Impatiently_] Did you send for me, Lorenzo? Who is
this lady who presumes to speak to you so affectionately?
LORENZO. Francesca! Francesca! [_In perplexity he looks now at one and
now at the other. Approaching the SECOND MASKER and knitting his brows in
an expression of horrified inquiry, he gazes into her eyes_] Your eyes,
your eyes—show me your eyes. Yes, it is you, Francesca. It is your soft
and tender gaze. It is your beautiful soul. Give me your hand. [_To the
FIRST MASKER, with contempt_] And you, madam, leave me.
THE SECOND MASKER. [_Pressing close to the Duke_] Lorenzo, your maskers
frighten me. Our castle is overrun with monsters. I saw Signor Sandro. He
is horrible.
LORENZO. [_Clasping his head_] Signor Sandro? Why, he is dead. You told
me so yourself.
_A third equally beautiful MASKER approaches from behind and
speaks in a loud voice._
THE THIRD MASKER. Lorenzo, my dear, did you send for me? Ecco said that
you wished to see me. Who is this lady with you? And what is the meaning
of this unseemly familiarity, Lorenzo?
LORENZO. [_Stepping back with a laugh in which is heard a note of
insanity_] What a capital joke, madam, what a delicious farce! Now it is
my wife who is lost. Laugh, my dear guests. I had a wife. They called her
Donna Francesca, and I have lost her. What a strange jest!
THE THREE MASKERS. [_Together_] Lorenzo, my beloved!
LORENZO. [_Laughing_] Do you hear, gentlemen?
_General unrestrained laughter._
VOICES. Lorenzo has lost his wife. Weep, gentlemen. Lorenzo has lost his
wife. Give Lorenzo another wife.
_On all sides are heard plaintive female voices_: “Here I
am, Lorenzo. Here I am, Lorenzo. Take your Francesca.” _From
somewhere comes a single terrified voice_: “Save me, Lorenzo, I
am here.” _Loud laughter. The seven old women, with the air of
coy and embarrassed brides, seem about to throw themselves on
LORENZO’S neck._
VOICE. We will give Lorenzo a wife. Gentlemen, Duke Lorenzo is now
contracting a new marriage. The wedding march, musicians!
_The MUSICIANS play wild strains remotely resembling wedding
music, but the music is that which is played in hell at the
masquerade wedding of Satan. The RED MASKER with the serpent
approaches LORENZO._
THE RED MASKER. Do you recognise your heart now, Lorenzo? [_Plaintively_]
Caress the poor serpent, caress the poor serpent. It has drunk all my
blood.
THE SPIDER. Now do you recognise your heart, Lorenzo? Let us go up into
the tower, my friend. Something is entangled in the spider-web there and
waits for you. But is your sword sharp, Lorenzo? Is your sword sharp?
LORENZO. Hence, hence! Brood of darkness, I know you not. [_Running a
few steps up the staircase, and raised thus alone above the throng of
MASKERS, he tries to cry out, but suddenly presses his hand to his heart,
and, smiling sadly, comes down again, the same winning, candid, noble,
and handsome figure as before_] Pardon me, my dear friends, for my touch
of ill-humour. These choice jests, these adroit tricks of yours have just
a little dashed my spirits— And I have lost my wife— Her name was Donna
Francesca. Permit me now—since the hour of departure draws nigh—permit me
to call your attention to some real music—not the hideous discords with
which this disguised brigand of a Luigi has, in his desire to contribute
to the general gaiety, so tortured our ears, but some music of my own. I
am a very poor composer, gentlemen. It is rare that these earthly ears
of mine are ravished by celestial melodies. But you will not criticise
me too harshly. In the virgin purity of the tones you will find a
restful calmness and the reflection of some one’s heavenly vision— And
I have lost my wife, gentlemen, I have lost my wife. Her name was Donna
Francesca.
THE MASKERS. We are waiting for your music, Lorenzo. All the world knows
the enchanting music of Duke Lorenzo. But the hour of departure is still
remote.
LORENZO. I am at your service, my dear guests. [_He confers with the
MUSICIANS._
_A little before this the first of the BLACK MASKERS has
appeared in the hall—a strange, deformed creature like a living
fragment of darkness. Glancing about timidly and suspiciously,
wondering at everything new, strange, and unfamiliar, the BLACK
MASKER steals guiltily along the wall and awkwardly conceals
itself behind the other MASKERS. Every one whom it approaches
starts back perplexed and alarmed._
A VOICE. Who is this? This is not a masker.
SECOND VOICE. I don’t know. Who invited you, sir?
_The BLACK MASKER makes no answer, but, shrinking into itself,
quietly hides behind the others. Two MASKERS converse._
FIRST MASKER. [_To the other in a low voice_] How many of us were there?
SECOND MASKER. A hundred.
FIRST MASKER. But now there are more. Who is this? Don’t you know?
SECOND MASKER. Not I. But I am afraid to speak of it. It seems that they
fly toward the light.
FIRST MASKER. Crazy Lorenzo! He lighted up his castle too brilliantly.
SECOND MASKER. Lights are dangerous in the night.
FIRST MASKER. To those who are abroad?
SECOND MASKER. No, to him who lights them.
LORENZO. My friends, I beg your attention. You see this masked gentleman.
His name is Romualdo and he is an admirable singer. He will now render
for you a little ballad which I made bold to compose. Have you your
notes, Romualdo?
THE MASKED SINGER. I have, sir.
LORENZO. And the words? Consult your notes frequently. In one place, my
friend, you often go wrong.
THE MASKED SINGER. I have the words also, sir.
LORENZO. Luigi, you villain, if you make a mistake in a single note I
will have you hanged from the castle wall to-morrow.
A MASKER IN THE ORCHESTRA. You will have no occasion to waste rope on me,
sir.
LORENZO. Attention, ladies and gentlemen, attention. [_Much excited_]
Now, Romualdo, do your best, my friend. Do not disgrace me, and to-morrow
I will give you a costly belt.
_The accompaniment begins with a beautiful, soft, and tender
harmony, pure and clear as a cloudless sky or as the eyes of a
child; but with each successive measure which the masked artist
sings the music becomes more fragmentary and more restless and
soon passes over into wild cries and laughter, expressive of
tragical but incoherent emotion. It closes with a solemn and
melancholy hymn._
THE MASKED SINGER. [_Singing_] “My soul is an enchanted castle. When the
sun shines into the lofty windows, with its golden rays it weaves golden
dreams. When the sad moon looks into the misty windows, in its silvery
beams are silvery dreams. Who laughs? Who laughs so tenderly at the
mournful dirge?”
LORENZO. Right, right, Romualdo.
THE MASKED SINGER. [_Singing_] “And I lighted up my castle with lights.
What has happened to my soul? The black shadows fled to the hills and
returned yet blacker. Who sobs? Who groans so heavily in the black
shadows of the cypresses? Who came at my call?”
LORENZO. [_In perplexity_] That is not there, Romualdo. What kind of
music is that?
THE MASKED SINGER. [_Singing_] “And terror entered my shining castle.
What has happened to my soul? The lights go out at the breath of the
darkness. Who laughs? Who laughs so horribly at insane Lorenzo? Have pity
on me, O Monarch. My soul is filled with terror. O Monarch—O Lord of the
World—O Satan!”
THE MASKERS. [_Laughing_] Have pity on him, Satan.
LORENZO. That is false, singer. I, Lorenzo, Duke of Spadaro, Knight of
the Holy Ghost, could never have called Satan the monarch of the world.
Give me the notes. My sword shall teach you how to read. [_Snatches the
notes and reads with growing horror_] “And my soul is filled with terror,
O Lord of the World—O Satan.” That is false. Some one has imitated my
handwriting, gentlemen. I never wrote this. I swear by almighty heaven,
sirs, I swear by the sacred memory of my mother, I swear by my word of
honour as a knight. There is some base deceit here. The words have been
altered, gentlemen.
THE MASKERS. We have no need of your oaths, Lorenzo. Go to the church if
you want to repent. We are the masters here. Continue, singer.
LORENZO. [_Smiling feebly_] Pardon me, gentlemen, I had for the moment
forgotten that for me everything is changed—faces, tones, even words.
But who would have thought, my dear guests, that words could assume such
revolting masks. Go on with your jest, singer.
THE MASKED SINGER. [_Singing_] “In the black depths of my heart I shall
erect a throne to you, O Satan. In the black depths of my thought I shall
erect a throne to you, O Satan. Divine, immortal, almighty, from now on
and for ever hold sway over the soul of Lorenzo, happy, insane Lorenzo.”
_Applause. Laughter._
VOICES:
—Bravo, Lorenzo! Bravo, bravo!
—Lorenzo is the vassal of Satan.
—We kneel to you, Lorenzo.
—Lorenzo, Duke of Spadaro, is a vassal of Satan.
—Bravo! Bravo!
LORENZO. [_Crying out_] In God’s name, gentlemen, we are all deceived.
This is not my singer. This is not Romualdo but some impostor. Satan has
sent him here. Something frightful has happened, gentlemen.
A VOICE. He sang your own song, Lorenzo.
SECOND VOICE. Out of your own mouth he confessed to Satan.
LORENZO. [_Pressing his hand to his heart_] This is a horrible falsehood,
gentlemen. Just imagine, my dear guests—how could I, Duke Lorenzo, Knight
of the Holy Ghost, son of a crusader——
A VOICE. But did your mother tell you whose son you are, Duke Lorenzo?
_Laughter. LORENZO, extending his arms, tries to say something,
but his words are inaudible. Pressing his hands to his head,
he runs swiftly up the staircase. Cries_: “Way for the queen’s
son!” _Two BLACK MASKERS appear, one after the other._
A VOICE. Who is this? Our numbers increase.
A FRIGHTENED VOICE. Uninvited guests are coming. Uninvited guests are
coming.
THIRD VOICE. They fly to the light. Off with your mask, sir. [_He tries
to pull the black mask from the face of the stranger and springs back in
terror, crying_] They are not masked, gentlemen.
_General confusion. Everything is enveloped in darkness. The
wild music, however, continues, gradually receding._
_Curtain._
SCENE II
_From somewhere in the distance come sounds of music, which,
mingling with the howling and whistling of the wind that rages
about the castle, fill the air with a wild, tremulous melody._
_An ancient library in the castle tower. A low, massive oak
door, partly open, through which steps are seen leading down
and a little beyond other steps leading upward. The heavy
ceiling is vaulted and there are small windows in deep stone
recesses. Here and there on the walls and hanging from the
ceiling are spider-webs. Everywhere are large old books—on the
floor, in heavy, iron-bound chests, and on small wooden stands.
A portion of the wall, hollowed out in niches, is also used to
hold books. Some of the niches are draped with heavy curtains._
_Beside one of the open chests, which is full of papers
yellowed with age, LORENZO is seated on a low stool. Near him,
on a support, stands a wrought-iron lantern which, by reason of
its cross-bars, throws here dark shadows and there bright lines
of light. For some time there is profound silence. All that can
be heard is the far-off music and the rustling of the sheets of
paper as LORENZO turns them over. LORENZO is dressed as at the
ball._
LORENZO. [_Raising his head_] What a frightful wind there is to-day! For
three nights now it has been raging and grows steadily more violent. How
horribly like the music of my thoughts! These poor thoughts of mine!
How like frightened creatures they beat about within this tight box of
bone! Once Lorenzo was young, but now, though only a little time has
passed—though the sun has encircled the earth but twice—lo, he is old,
and the weight of terrible experience, the horrible truth of things human
and divine, has bowed his youthful back. Poor Lorenzo! Poor Lorenzo!
[_He reads. Breaking off for a moment_] If all that is in these yellowed
papers is true, who then is ruler of the world, God or Satan? And who am
I that call myself Lorenzo, Duke of Spadaro? Oh, the horrible reality
of human life! My young soul is smitten with sorrow. [_He reads, then
carefully lays aside the sheets and speaks_] So it is true, mother; it
is true. I thought, my mother, that you were a saint. I swore by your
memory, and my oath was as solemn as if I had sworn upon my knightly
sword; and yet you, my saintly mother, were the paramour of a drunken,
thieving groom. And my noble father, returning from Palestine to die
in his ancestral home, learned of this and pardoned you, and bore the
terrible secret with him to his grave. Whose son am I, O my saintly
mother—the son of a knight, who gave his life’s blood to the Lord, or the
son of a filthy groom, an abominable traitor and thief, who robbed his
master at his orisons? Poor Lorenzo! Poor Lorenzo!
_He falls into deep thought. Swift footsteps are heard along
the staircase, and LORENZO rushes into the room, his head
between his hands, in the same attitude in which he left the
hall. He takes his hands from his face, sees the LORENZO who is
seated, and cries out in a frightened voice._
THE SECOND LORENZO. Who is this?
THE FIRST LORENZO. [_Rising in alarm_] Who is this?
_The SECOND LORENZO throws himself upon the other and hurls
the lantern to the floor. The room is now faintly illuminated
by the light from the open door. There is a brief, muffled
struggle and then the two figures separate._
THE SECOND LORENZO. Your jest is overbold, sir. Remove your mask, I
command you, else I will remove it for you by force. I gave you my castle
but not myself, and by assuming my mask you insult me. There is but one
Lorenzo, but one Duke of Spadaro, and that is I. Off with your mask, sir!
[_He advances toward the other._
THE FIRST LORENZO. [_In a trembling voice_] If you are only a frightful
apparition, I conjure you, in the name of God, vanish. There is but one
Lorenzo, but one Duke of Spadaro, and that is I.
THE SECOND LORENZO. [_Wildly_] Off with your mask, sir! I have borne too
long with your unseemly jests. My patience is at an end. Either remove
your mask or draw your sword. Duke Lorenzo knows how to punish insolence.
THE FIRST LORENZO. In God’s name!
THE SECOND LORENZO. In the devil’s name, you mean, unhappy man. Your
sword, sir, your sword, else I shall run you through on the spot like a
guilty dog.
THE FIRST LORENZO. In God’s name!
THE SECOND LORENZO. [_Furiously_] Your sword, sir, your sword!
_From the dimly lighted stage comes the whistling and the
clash of meeting rapiers. The two LORENZOS engage each other
savagely, though the FIRST LORENZO is obviously the inferior.
There are brief, muffled exclamations_:
“In God’s name!”
“Off with your mask!”
“You have killed me, Lorenzo.”
_He falls and dies. LORENZO sets his foot upon the corpse
and, wiping his sword, speaks with unexpected sadness and
tenderness._
LORENZO. I am sorry for you, Sir Impostor. Your strength of wrist,
your deep breathing, showed me that you were young like myself. But
your misfortune, unhappy sir, lay in this, that Duke Lorenzo wearied
of laughing at the amiable quips of his guests. You went to an obscure
death, young man, the hapless victim of a masquerading joke; but still
I pity you, and if I knew where your mother is I would bear to her your
parting words. Farewell, Signor.
_He goes out. For some time there is silence. Then all is
veiled in darkness, and the sounds of wild music grow louder
and draw nearer._
_Curtain._
SCENE III
_The ball continues. There seem to be more MASKERS. The hall is
more crowded, and the MASKERS are restless as if the strange,
mysteriously altered wine were having its effect upon the
guests. The music, though it has grown a little languorous, is
as wild as before. A mournful and lovely melody springs up, as
it were accidentally, in the chaos of wild and turbulent cries,
but is immediately overwhelmed and swept away upon the wind
like a withered leaf which, torn from its branch, flutters in
circles before it sinks to rest. Part of the MASKERS continue
to dance, but the greater number, perplexed and restless, move
to and fro, gathering for a moment in groups to interchange
brief, excited remarks. The BLACK MASKERS wander about singly
in the throng. Hairy and black from foot to crown, some
resembling orang-outangs and others those uncouth hairy insects
which in the night-time fly toward the light, they move along
the walls with a guilty, embarrassed, and somewhat absent air
and hide in the corners. But curiosity overcomes their shyness,
and, creeping cautiously about, they examine various objects,
holding them close to their eyes. They touch the white marble
columns with their hairy black fingers. They take in their
hands the costly goblets, only to drop them again, as it were,
helplessly. The MASKERS who arrived before them are manifestly
afraid of them._
VOICES: Where is Lorenzo?
—Where is Lorenzo? We must find Lorenzo. Did no one notice where the Duke
went? We must tell him now or it will be too late.
—They fly toward the light.
—It is plain that they are here for the first time. See how they look at
everything, with what curiosity they touch things. Who invited them?
—They were not invited. They came of their own accord along the lighted
road.
—But perhaps they are some of our friends.
—No, no, they are strangers.
—It is all due to the light in the tower. How dreadful!
—Crazy Lorenzo! Crazy Lorenzo! Crazy Lorenzo!
—The drawbridge should be raised. Then they cannot enter.
—Call Lorenzo.
_A BLACK MASKER touches, out of curiosity, the sleeve of one of
the other MASKERS, who springs back affrighted._
THE MASKER. What do you wish, sir? I do not know you. Who are you? Who
invited you here?
THE BLACK MASKER. I do not know who I am. Some one lighted up the tower,
and we came. It’s dark out there and very cold. But who are you? I do not
know you, either.
_He tries to embrace the MASKER, but the latter shrinks from
him._
THE MASKER. Keep your hands from me, sir, or I will hew off your fingers.
_The BLACK MASKER moves unsteadily toward the fire burning
on the hearth and sits cross-legged to warm himself. His
fellows join him and in a black ring encircle the fire, which
immediately begins to die out._
FIRST BLACK MASKER. It’s cold, it’s cold.
SECOND BLACK MASKER. It’s cold.
THIRD BLACK MASKER. Is this what they call fire? How beautiful it is!
Whose house is this? Why didn’t we come here before?
FIRST BLACK MASKER. Because we were then unborn. The light begat us.
SECOND BLACK MASKER. Why does the fire go out? I love it so, and yet it
goes out. Why does the fire go out?
A MASKER. Duke Lorenzo is a traitor. He has played us false. He said the
castle was ours. Why, then, did he invite these creatures?
SECOND MASKER. He did not invite them. They came of themselves. But this
castle is ours, and we will have the drawbridge raised. Ho! Servants!
Servants of the Duke Lorenzo! This way!
_No one comes._
THIRD MASKER. The servants have run away. Call Lorenzo. Call Lorenzo.
THE OLD WOMEN. [_Running up with castanets_] The bridegroom is coming.
The bridegroom is coming. The bridegroom is coming.
VOICES. Lorenzo! Lorenzo! Lorenzo!
_LORENZO appears, smiling, on the staircase. His clothes are
torn. On his bared breast is a large blood-red spot, but he
seems not to be aware of it and bears himself with his former
dignity and with the refinement and reserve of a prince regent._
LORENZO. Kindly pardon me, my friends, for presuming to leave you for a
moment. You can’t imagine, my dear guests, what an amusing and diverting
trick has been played upon me. I have just met a very clever gentleman
who had donned the mask of Duke Lorenzo. You would have been amazed at
the striking resemblance. This skilful artist had stolen not only my
dress but even my voice and my features. Really, it’s amusing. [_He
laughs._
A MASKER. There is blood on you, Lorenzo.
LORENZO. [_Glancing at himself indifferently_] It is not my blood. I
think [_rubbing his forehead thoughtfully_], I think I killed that
jester. Did you not hear falling bodies, gentlemen?
A MASKER. Duke Lorenzo is a murderer! Whom did you kill, Lorenzo?
LORENZO. Pardon me, gentlemen, but really I do not know whom I did kill.
He lies in the tower, and if you like you may take a look at him. He is
lying there. But why has the music ceased? And why, my dear guests, are
you not dancing?
A MASKER. The music has not ceased, Lorenzo.
LORENZO. Oh, really? I thought it was the wind, merely a violent wind.
Dance, my friends. Your unbounded joy delights me. Petruccio! Cristoforo!
More wine for my dear guests. [_Sadly_] Ah, to be sure [_he laughs_],
I have lost them all—Petruccio, Cristoforo, and Donna Francesca. So
my wife was called—Donna Francesca. A charming name, isn’t it? Donna
Francesca——
_The number of the BLACK MASKERS increases. One of them mounts
the stairs and addresses himself to the Duke._
THE BLACK MASKER. Did you kindle the light?
LORENZO. Who are you, sir? You have a strange, coarse voice, and I think
I did not invite you. How did you gain admittance?
THE BLACK MASKER. Did you kindle the light?
LORENZO. Yes, my charming stranger. I had my castle lighted up. The
lights shine far, do they not?
THE BLACK MASKER. You roused the whole night. Everything is astir there,
and now the night is coming hither. No harm in our coming, was there? Is
your name Lorenzo? Is this your house? Is this your light?
_He seeks to embrace LORENZO, who violently thrusts him away._
THE MASKERS. [_From below_] Be on your guard, Lorenzo. Lorenzo, your
castle is in danger. They have come uninvited. Have the drawbridge raised
and all the doors tightly barred.
A VOICE. The drawbridge is already raised, but they are clambering over
the walls.
ANOTHER VOICE. All the darkness of the night is transformed into living
creatures, and from every side they are coming hither. Bar the doors.
A MASKER. [_From below_] Lorenzo, you invited us, and we are your guests.
You must protect us. Summon your armed guards and kill these creatures.
Otherwise they will kill both you and us.
A THIRD VOICE. Look! For every one of them a light goes out. They devour
the light. They put the light out with their black bodies.
FIRST VOICE. Who are they? They love the light and yet they put it out.
They fly to the light and the light goes out. Who are they?
LORENZO. What a delightful jest, Signors! It’s very clever of you. But
the lights are actually going out, and it is becoming strangely cold
here. May I trouble some of you to call my servants? They will bring
fresh lights. I really do not know where they are.
_The closed doors burst open, as if suddenly yielding to a
strong pressure, and let in a throng of BLACK MASKERS, and at
the same instant the light grows markedly fainter. The BLACK
MASKERS, roaming about the hall with the same embarrassed but
persistent curiosity, gather in a black throng around the
fireplace, completely extinguishing the already enfeebled
blaze._
THE BLACK MASKERS. It’s cold, cold, cold.
VOICES. Relight the candles. They are going out. Who opened the doors?
Bring torches. Torches!
_In the confusion that ensues several of the guests try to
close the doors, but give back before the pressure of the
continually increasing throng of BLACK MASKERS. Others, with no
greater success, attempt to light the extinguished chandeliers,
which flare up but immediately go out again. Now and then a
MASKER appears with a blazing torch, the red, flickering light
filling the hall with a fantastic dance of shadows._
LORENZO. [_Watching the scene with pleasure_] A charming sight. A more
interesting conflict between light and darkness it has never been my good
fortune to witness. A thousand thanks to him who devised it. I am his
devoted, life-long servant.
VOICES. The torches are going out. Bring torches.
A MASKER. We must put out the lights in the tower. This insane Lorenzo
will ruin us all.
SECOND MASKER. Some one has already gone to the tower.
THE SPIDER. [_Speaking to a BLACK MASKER toward whom he has for some time
been making his way_] Are you from Satan?
THE BLACK MASKER. Who is Satan?
THE SPIDER. [_Incredulously_] Why, don’t you know Satan? Who sent you
here?
THE BLACK MASKER. I don’t know. We came of our own accord.
_He tries to embrace THE SPIDER. The latter, frightened, runs
away on wobbling legs._
LORENZO. Luigi, you villain, why are you and your orchestra silent? Play,
I beg of you, that song of mine— Do you remember it? Pardon my weak
voice, gentlemen; I must refresh the memory of this forgetful singer.
Listen, Luigi.
_He runs over the opening bars of a simple, touching air, such
as mothers sing when they lull their children, and strangely,
with low and tender harmonies, the strains of the orchestra
answer to the song. All else is silent._
_THE BLACK MASKERS, in awkward and ungainly attitudes, listen
to the music, gaping with vacant curiosity. Only at the door,
which the MASKERS hold shut by the main strength of their
shoulders, there is a knocking and scratching and a low,
plaintive moaning. LORENZO, closing his eyes and swaying
slightly, sings in a low voice. Suddenly, behind him, along the
stairway, echoes the trampling of many feet, distinctly audible
in the silence. Several MASKERS run down the staircase past
LORENZO, jostling him._
LORENZO. [_Gently reproaching them_] Gentlemen, you put me out.
ONE OF THE MASKERS. [_Panting_] Murder! Murder! There has been a murder
in the tower.
VOICES. Who is murdered?
FIRST MASKER. Lorenzo himself—Lorenzo, the Duke of Spadaro, lord of this
castle—is murdered.
SECOND MASKER. We saw his corpse. The unhappy Duke lies in the library,
pierced by a rapier thrust from behind. His slayer is not only a murderer
but a traitor.
LORENZO. That is false, gentlemen. I struck him in the heart. I slew him
in honourable combat. He defended himself savagely, but the Lord God
strengthened my hand, and I slew him.
VOICES. Vengeance, gentlemen! To arms, to arms! The Duke of Spadaro is
treacherously slain.
FIRST MASKER. [_Pointing to LORENZO_] And there is his murderer. Off with
your mask, sir!
LORENZO. My mask? [_With dignity_] It is true, gentlemen, that I killed
some one in the tower—some brazen jester—but it was not the Duke Lorenzo.
I am Duke Lorenzo.
VOICES. [_Shouting_] Off with your mask, murderer!
_Meanwhile the influx of the BLACK MASKERS and the quenching
of the lights continue. Now and then another torch replaces
one that has gone out. The ensuing words of LORENZO and the
MASKERS are interrupted by frequent cries of_ “Bring torches,
the lights are going out.”
LORENZO. Why do you think that I am masked, gentlemen? [_Feeling of his
face_] This is no mask. I assure you gentlemen, this is my own face.
VOICES. Off with your mask, murderer!
LORENZO. [_Flaring up_] I beg you to give over this unbecoming jest. I
swear on my honour that this is the face that God gave me when I was
born, and not one of those repulsive masks that I see on you, gentlemen.
A mask cannot smile as I smile in answer to your daring jests.
_He tries to smile, but his lips only twitch convulsively.
For a moment, with teeth bared, he presents the appearance of
a frightful, laughing mask, but instantly his face becomes
motionless, turns pale, and stiffens._
LORENZO. [_Horrified_] What is this? What has happened to my face? It
does not obey me. It will not smile, but grows rigid. [_Piteously_]
Perhaps I am going insane. Just look at me, gentlemen. This is surely not
a mask. It is a face—a living, human face.
_Laughter and shouts_: “Off with your mask, murderer! Look,
look! Lorenzo is turning to stone.”
LORENZO. [_His face turned to stone_] All is lost, gentlemen. I tried to
smile and could not. I tried to weep and could not weep. I wear a mask of
stone. [_He grasps his face in a fury, trying to tear it off_] I’ll tear
you off, accursed mask, I’ll tear you off together with the flesh and
blood. Help me, Donna Francesca. Cut the edge here a bit with your dagger
and it will at once fall away and let you see the face of your Lorenzo.
Bring your consecrated sword, Cristoforo. Save your master, whom God has
abandoned. One moment, gentlemen, one moment—I will——
_He utters a wild cry and falls. At the same instant there
is a crash of breaking window-frames, the windows are burst
open, and through them pour in the BLACK MASKERS. The hall is
dark save for the tremulous light of two remaining torches,
and presently one of these goes out. A commotion arises on the
darkened stage. There are wild cries of terror and despair and
vain efforts to escape. Several of the BLACK MASKERS mount the
musicians’ balcony, seize the horns, and trumpet wildly._
A VOICE. Do you hear? They are blowing the trumpets. They are summoning
their kin.
SECOND VOICE. That is their music.
THIRD VOICE. Save yourselves, they are coming through the windows!
FIRST VOICE. The tower is full of them. They are pouring down from it
like a black torrent. Bring torches.
FOURTH VOICE. There are no more torches. This is the last.
MANY VOICES. Save yourselves, save yourselves!
THIRD VOICE. They hold all the exits.
A FEMALE VOICE. He is embracing me. I am stifling. I shall die. Save me!
Among so many knights is there none to protect me?
A VOICE. To arms!
THIRD VOICE. Swords are powerless against them.
FOURTH VOICE. There is no way of escape. We are lost! Crazy Lorenzo! He
has ruined us all!
THE BLACK MASKERS. [_Roaming about, one by one_] It’s cold, cold. Where’s
the light? Where’s the fire? They have deceived us!
A VOICE. [_In rage and despair_] You have devoured the light, you brood
of darkness!
THE BLACK MASKERS. It’s cold, cold. Where is the light? Where is the fire?
_They crowd around the last torch, which one of the MASKERS
holds high in his uplifted hand, seeking to keep it alight. The
torch goes out. Darkness._
VOICES. Crazy Lorenzo! Crazy Lorenzo! Crazy Lorenzo!
_Curtain._
ACT II
SCENE IV
_A corner of the chapel in the feudal castle._
_The walls are draped in black in sign of mourning. The tall,
dust-laden windows of coloured glass admit a feeble, softly
tinted light. On a black dais, in a massive black coffin, lies
the body of LORENZO, Duke of Spadaro. At each corner of the
coffin is a huge wax candle. On the dais at the head of the
coffin, in the soft glow of the candles, stands DUKE LORENZO,
dressed entirely in black, his hand resting on the bier._
_From the courtyard of the castle comes at intervals the
whining and barking of hunting-dogs. Now and then a prolonged
and mournful blare of trumpets carries abroad the sad news
of the death of the Duke of Spadaro. In the intervals of
silence the solemn notes of an organ and the voice of a priest
can be heard at one side beyond the glass doors leading to
the other half of the chapel. Mass is being conducted there
uninterruptedly._
LORENZO. [_To the one lying in the coffin_] The whole neighbourhood has
by now been informed of your death, Duke Lorenzo, and in tears is calling
for vengeance on your murderer. Lie still, Signor. Those who loved you
are now coming to pay their respects to your dust. The peasants will
come, and your servants, and your inconsolable widow, Donna Francesca.
But I beseech you, Lorenzo, lie quiet. I have already had the honour of
running my sword through your unworthy heart, but if you stir, if you
dare to speak or cry out, I will tear your heart clean from your breast
and throw it to your hunting-dogs. In the name of our former friendship,
I beseech you, Lorenzo, lie quiet. [_He arranges the shroud with tender
solicitude and kisses the corpse on the forehead. At this moment in the
corner of the chapel, in the folds of the black drapery, is heard a deep
sigh and the plaintive tinkling of bells_] Who’s there? Oh, is that you,
my little Ecco, hidden in the corner and softly tinkling your little
bells? Who let you in?
ECCO. Why did you die, Lorenzo? Foolish Lorenzo! Why did you die?
LORENZO. I had to die, Ecco.
ECCO. Then I shall die with you, Lorenzo. Your servants use me ill. Your
dogs’ teeth are sharp. All day I lay hid in the tower, waiting for the
door of the chapel to open. Do not drive me away, Lorenzo.
LORENZO. You shall stay here, jester.
ECCO. What a long, white nose you have, Lorenzo. It must be embarrassing
to have such a nose and to be compelled to hold it up like that. I would
laugh if it were not so frightful.
LORENZO. That is death, Ecco. But hide yourself, some one is coming.
_ECCO conceals himself. Several PEASANTS enter and bow low at a
little distance from the coffin, not venturing to come nearer._
LORENZO. [_Impressively_] Duke Lorenzo, open your heart and return to
life for a moment. Your good peasants have come to bid you farewell. Come
nearer, my friends. Duke Lorenzo in his lifetime was a kind master, and
now that he is dead he will not harm you. Draw nearer.
_The PEASANTS approach, though it is apparent that they are
still afraid._
FIRST PEASANT. God forgive you, Duke Lorenzo, as I forgive you. Many
a time you and your hunters have trampled down my fields of grain, and
what the hoofs of your horses left untouched your kind overseer took for
himself, depriving me and my family of bread. Yet you were a good master,
and I pray God to forgive you your sins.
LORENZO. [_To the one lying in the coffin_] Quiet, sir, quiet. I
understand how it is with you: you cannot hear unmoved this bitter truth
about your evil deeds. But do not forget that you are dead. Lie quiet,
sir, lie quiet.
A PEASANT WOMAN. May God forgive you, Duke Lorenzo, as I forgive you.
You took my little daughter from me for your ducal pleasure, and she was
ruined. But you were young and handsome, and you were a good master to
us. I pray God to forgive you your sins. [_She weeps._
LORENZO. [_To the one lying in the coffin_] Quiet, sir, quiet. I remember
how you loved the blue corn-flowers amid the ripened grain. Does not this
remind you of some one’s blue eyes, of some one’s golden hair?
SECOND PEASANT. On the very eve of your departure for Palestine, Duke
Lorenzo, to deliver the Holy Sepulchre, my son was killed in your
service. A poor service you rendered to the Lord, Duke Lorenzo, and you
shall have no forgiveness either on earth or in heaven.
LORENZO. [_Setting his teeth_] Did you hear, sir? [_To the PEASANTS_]
Return in peace to your homes, my friends. Duke Lorenzo has heard you,
and he will humbly bear your every word to the throne of the Almighty.
_The PEASANTS withdraw._
LORENZO. [_To the one lying in the coffin_] Lorenzo, insane Lorenzo, what
have you done to me?
_Enter SIGNOR CRISTOFORO, slightly tipsy. He kneels unsteadily
and for some time is silent. ECCO peeps from his hiding-place,
then conceals himself again._
LORENZO. He is listening, Signor Cristoforo.
CRISTOFORO. [_Swaying to and fro_] Duke di Spadaro! Lorenzo! Boy! How
lonely I am without you. Forgive me, my poor boy. When your noble father
and I returned from Palestine and you were born—and a little, red chap
you were—I swore to your father that I would always protect you. And
I have protected your wines. Pardon me, Lorenzo, but they drink like
camels. To-day, however, having opened all the cellars, I knocked out the
heads of the casks and slit all the skins and said: “Drink, you camels,
you asses, you accursed sponges. I shall gird on my sword and go seek the
murderer of my boy, of my dear Lorenzo.”
[_He wipes his eyes with his fist and staggers to his feet._
LORENZO. [_With dignity_] The Duke thanks you, Cristoforo. You are drunk,
my old friend, but at your words the lips of his wound have opened and
two crimson drops have welled up from the depths of his heart. They are
yours, Cristoforo. Go.
_CRISTOFORO withdraws. ECCO creeps out, tinkling his bells._
ECCO. Have you nothing for me, Lorenzo? Give me at least one little drop
of blood from your heart. I am tired of being ill-tempered and deformed.
LORENZO. I will give you more than that, Ecco. Come and kiss me.
ECCO. I am afraid.
LORENZO. He loved you, little coward.
ECCO. If you were alive, Lorenzo, I should be glad to kiss you, but I am
afraid of corpses. Why did you die, Lorenzo? It was unkind of you. [_He
seats himself on the floor, curling his legs under him as if getting
ready for a long and interesting conversation_] You see, Lorenzo, we
must go away. You look upon me as a jester and do not take me seriously,
but once when you were playing with me you touched me with your sword,
and now I am just as much a knight as you are, Lorenzo. So listen to me.
Cease being dead, take your sword, and we will go away together like two
knights.
LORENZO. [_Smiling_] Whither, my doughty knight?
ECCO. To the Lord God! [_With growing animation_] He knows you, Lorenzo,
and, as for me, you will tell him that I am your brother, a little
hunchback. And when he has sanctified our swords— Oh, oh, Lorenzo, there
come your ruffians! I am afraid; I will hide myself.
_He conceals himself. A band of drunken, boisterous SERVANTS
come in, reeling and jostling one another. Several keep their
hats on._
LORENZO. [_Angrily_] Off with your hats, you villains! Lie quiet, sir,
lie quiet.
PIETRO. Bah! He’s already beginning to stink. Whoever wishes can go and
kiss his hand. I won’t.
MARIO. I’d rather kiss Donna Francesca. Of all the ladies I have seen,
she pleases me best. You see, gentlemen, the inclination is inherited; my
uncle kissed Duke Lorenzo’s mother, so I want to kiss his wife.
_Laughter._
LORENZO. I implore you, sir, be quiet. I see how the black blood surges
in your wound, but it is another’s blood, Lorenzo.
MANUCCI. Pietro, you have stolen one of my golden spurs. To-morrow I
shall flay you for it.
PIETRO. And I’ll lop off your nose.
LORENZO. Away with you, you villains; be off!
_He half draws his sword. The SERVANTS look about in fright._
PIETRO. Did you say that, Mario?
MARIO. Sh! I heard the voice of the dead Duke, old Henry. Let’s be off.
MANUCCI. I’ll have the hide of you yet.
MARIO. Come, let’s be off.
_They go out._
LORENZO. [_To the one lying in the coffin, contemptuously_] And these,
sir, are your servants, to whom you intrusted your castle, your
treasures, and your wife, the beautiful Donna Francesca. Let us have
no charges of disloyalty or treason, unhappy Duke. Do not insult me
with lying evasions nor stain your honourable grave with sin. [_Greatly
agitated_] Be calm, sir, be calm. I hear Donna Francesca coming. I
recognise her step, and I implore you, sir, in the name of God, lie
quiet. Summon your strength, sir.
_Silence. The mournful notes of the requiem from behind the
wall grow louder. LORENZO, bending forward and laying his hand
upon his heart, awaits the appearance of DONNA FRANCESCA. She
enters alone, clad in deep mourning. She kneels. Silence.
During the following scene ECCO comes partly out from the black
drapery and weeps bitterly, softly tinkling his bells._
LORENZO. [_Unable to control himself_] I love you, Francesca.
FRANCESCA. [_In a low voice_] I love you, Lorenzo.
LORENZO. [_Sadly_] But you see that I am dead, Francesca.
FRANCESCA. To me, Lorenzo, you will always be alive.
LORENZO. [_Sadly_] You will forget me, Donna Francesca.
FRANCESCA. I shall never forget you, Lorenzo.
LORENZO. [_Sadly_] You are young, Donna Francesca.
FRANCESCA. In a single night my heart has grown old, Lorenzo.
LORENZO. [_Sadly_] Your face is beautiful, Donna Francesca. [_Gently
reproachful_] Bitter tears have not dulled the bright gleam of your
eyes, O Donna Francesca! Bitter tears have not washed the delicate roses
from your cheeks, O Donna Francesca! Your black mourning does not conceal
the grace and beauty of your form, O Donna Francesca, O Donna Francesca!
FRANCESCA. The light has gone out of my eyes, Lorenzo. My face has
withered as a leaf withers at the cruel touch of the sirocco, and my form
is bowed to the earth in bitter and overwhelming grief.
LORENZO. That is not true, Francesca.
FRANCESCA. I swear it, Lorenzo.
LORENZO. [_His voice trembling_] Lie still, sir, lie still. I see how
your heart heaves, Lorenzo. I see how your tortured heart quivers at the
pitiless words of love, and I pity you, Lorenzo. Go, Donna Francesca.
Leave me with my dead friend. Your beautiful grief tears at our hearts,
and I implore you in the name of God to leave us.
_DONNA FRANCESCA weeps._
LORENZO. [_In an agony of grief_] O Donna Francesca! O my love! O light
of my youth! [_Covering his face with his hands, he weeps silently_] Draw
nearer, Francesca. Kiss him. I will not look.
_FRANCESCA, sobbing convulsively, kisses the dead LORENZO._
LORENZO. [_Covering his face with his hands_] Kiss him more ardently,
Donna Francesca, for you will never see him again. Kiss him more
ardently. God placed a sword in my hand, and with it I punished the
insane Lorenzo. But still he was a knight. He was a Knight of the Holy
Ghost, Francesca. And now leave us.
_ECCO, frightened, conceals himself. DONNA FRANCESCA, in tears,
descends from dais, kneels again, and withdraws. Silence. The
last mournful strains of the funeral dirge are heard._
LORENZO. [_To the one lying in the coffin_] I thank you for obeying my
behest and lying quiet. I saw how hard it was for you, and again I thank
you, Lorenzo. Now we are alone—now and for ever. Let us go, Lorenzo; let
us go into the unknown future.
_The stage is suddenly dark._
_Curtain._
SCENE V
_The same hall as in Scene I. It is toward evening. Through
the half-open window mountain peaks are seen glowing in the
last rays of the setting sun. A fire burns in the fireplace. A
number of candles are burning, but two SERVANTS, moving along
the wall, continue to light others. Silence._
PIETRO. Why have they ordered so many candles to be lighted? Is any one
expected to-day? I have heard nothing of it.
MARIO. Hold your tongue, stupid. You talk as if you didn’t know.
PIETRO. [_Gruffly_] How should I know? They call me in when they need me,
but as soon as anything goes wrong they shout: “Begone!”
MARIO. Everybody knows. The townspeople of Spadaro came up to the castle
to-day. So they know, too. You’re the only one that hasn’t heard.
PIETRO. I don’t care to hear. Only tell me, why so many lights?
MARIO. Because Duke Lorenzo has so ordered.
PIETRO. But why did he so order?
MARIO. Because to-day Duke Lorenzo is expecting guests.
PIETRO. Well, I said myself that there were to be guests. You might have
told me in the beginning.
MARIO. [_Sighing_] You’re stupid, Pietro. There will be no guests to-day.
It’s only that Lorenzo expects them.
PIETRO. How can he expect them if they are not coming?
MARIO. He imagines that they are coming. Do you understand, stupidity? He
only imagines it. Probably you, when you are drunk, imagine things also.
Why did you cry out yesterday in your drunken sleep?
PIETRO. I dreamt that Signor Cristoforo was beating me with his cane.
MARIO. There, now. You see, don’t you?
PIETRO. Well, is the Duke, then, drunk? [_He laughs._
_PETRUCCIO, the overseer, enters._
PETRUCCIO. Lively, now, you lazybones, lively! You, there, Pietro, what
are you yawning about?
MARIO. My dear Signor Petruccio, you are so wise that even Signor
Cristoforo listens to you. Explain to this fool what has happened to our
Duke.
PETRUCCIO. That, my fine fellows, is none of your affair.
PIETRO. There, you’ve got your explanation. Which of us is the fool now?
PETRUCCIO. [_Gazing at the ceiling_] Both of you. The Duke is simply
indisposed. He has delirium.
PIETRO. But why so many lights?
PETRUCCIO. Because— Clear out!
_Enter CRISTOFORO. PIETRO bows low before him._
PETRUCCIO. Good evening, Signor.
CRISTOFORO. Ah, Petruccio, Petruccio, when will you become thin so that
you may contain less wine?
PETRUCCIO. If I become any thinner I shall be like a long drain-pipe,
which, letting everything flow through, contains naught.
CRISTOFORO. [_Threatening him with his finger_] Take care, take care,
Signor Overseer. [_Sighs_] Well, drink all you like, Petruccio. No one
is left to save the wine for. Poor Lorenzo, poor Lorenzo! Little did I
think, when we returned from Palestine with his father, that so horrible
a fate was in store for the proud family of the Dukes of Spadaro. What
has come over him? Where hovers his immortal soul? I looked him in the
eyes to-day with a gaze that might have pierced the head of a wine-cask,
but he merely smiled at me and, in a voice that would have brought tears
to the eyes of a heathen Turk, said gently: “Who are you? I don’t know
you. Take off your mask, Signor.”
PETRUCCIO. Indeed, indeed! but that is amazing, Signor Cristoforo.
CRISTOFORO. “My boy,” I said to him, “Duke Lorenzo, just stop and think.
If this were a mask, then what a horrible mask I should be wearing.”
[_Wiping away his tears_] “My boy,” I said, “Duke Lorenzo, just touch
with your finger this scar that I received in defending the Holy
Sepulchre. Do masks have such scars?”
MARIO. Really, really! Holy Virgin!
CRISTOFORO. And Lorenzo put his finger on the scar and said: “What
a wretched mask, Signor; it is apparently made of two pieces sewed
together.” Poor Lorenzo, poor Lorenzo!
_ECCO appears and shrinks into a corner, making himself as
small as possible. He sighs deeply._
PETRUCCIO. You see that Ecco, too, is sad, Signor. It’s an ill thing in a
house when the jester takes to sighing like a half-frozen dog. Man cannot
live without laughter, Signor Cristoforo. When laughter dies the man dies
too. Laugh, Ecco. Even if you utter no word, at least laugh, and you
will cheer my soul.
ECCO. [_With a deep sigh_] I cannot, Signor Petruccio.
CRISTOFORO. Don’t you find my queer moustachios very amusing?
ECCO. [_With a deep sigh_] Very, Signor Cristoforo.
CRISTOFORO. Then why don’t you laugh?
ECCO. I cannot, Signor Cristoforo.
PETRUCCIO. There, you see for yourself. Laughter is dead. Poor Lorenzo!
CRISTOFORO. Yes. Poor Lorenzo!
_All the candles are now lighted and the SERVANTS withdraw._
PETRUCCIO. Mario, go tell Donna Francesca that the candles are lighted
and all is in readiness—for the reception of the guests.
CRISTOFORO. What guests, pray, can there be, Signor Overseer?
PETRUCCIO. [_With a gesture of despair_] And you, Pietro, go and see that
the drawbridge is lowered.
CRISTOFORO. What for?
PETRUCCIO. The Duke so ordered.
CRISTOFORO. Lorenzo? Why do you take orders from him?
PETRUCCIO. If, Signor Cristoforo, you had heard his voice and seen his
gesture of command, you would have obeyed him too.
CRISTOFORO. I? Never.
ECCO. You would have obeyed, Signor Cristoforo, as I obeyed. What was I?
A little, malicious dwarf found in the castle moat. When he so willed, I
became his laughter. And what shall I now become? It is not for you to
judge, gentlemen. I shall be whatever my master, Lorenzo, bids.
PETRUCCIO. His tears?
ECCO. [_Sighing_] No.
CRISTOFORO. His fears?
ECCO. [_Sighing_] No, his fire. I was his tears. I do not know, Signor
Cristoforo, if I was his fears, but now I shall become his fire. He said
to me, as he said to you: “Who are you, sir? I do not know you. Take off
your mask.” And I fell to weeping, gentlemen, and replied: “Very well,
Lorenzo. If you bid me, I will take off my mask.”
CRISTOFORO. No, Ecco, you were better when you smiled.
_Enter SIGNORA FRANCESCA with her suite of ladies and
gentlemen. They move silently and sadly about the hall,
embarrassed by its emptiness and the brilliant lights._
A GENTLEMAN. [_In a low voice_] It seems an eternity since I kissed you
last, Leonora.
LEONORA. And it will be an eternity before you kiss me again, sir.
THE GENTLEMAN. How cruel you are, my goddess. As if one eternity were not
enough.
DONNA FRANCESCA. I beg of you, ladies and gentlemen, to do me a favour.
You are no doubt aware that the Duke, my husband, is somewhat indisposed.
He is expecting guests, though none are invited, and since he will
probably assume, my dear friends, that you are his guests, I beg of you
not to express surprise or alarm. The Duke’s memory is somewhat impaired,
so that he forgets even persons who are dear to him. Divert him, gently
and cautiously, from his illusions. I count on your tact and kindness, my
friends. Announce to Duke Lorenzo [_covering her face with her hands_]
that the guests are arriving.
ECCO. [_Sighing_] I was his laughter. I was his tears. What shall I now
become? [_He rises and starts to go out._
CRISTOFORO. Where are you going, Ecco?
ECCO. Where the will of my master may lead me.
FRANCESCA. Signor Petruccio, I trust that you have not forgotten the
musicians. Have they learned the music that Duke Lorenzo composed for
them?
PETRUCCIO. The musicians only await your instructions, madam.
VOICES. Silence! Silence! Duke Lorenzo! Duke Lorenzo!
_On the brilliantly illuminated staircase appears DUKE LORENZO.
He wears the same costume as at the ball, even to the torn
doublet, which exposes the spot of blood on his breast over his
heart. His face is very pale. He pauses and, looking radiantly
about the brilliantly lighted hall, bows with an air of
gracious hospitality._
LORENZO. I am delighted to welcome you, my dear guests. From this moment
my castle is at your disposal. I am merely your servant. Petruccio, is
the roadway lighted?
PETRUCCIO. It is lighted, sir.
LORENZO. Do not forget, my friend, that the whole night is watching
us. We will show it, sir, what is meant by a bright and living fire.
[_He comes down_] What charming masks! I am happy, my friends, to be
honoured by your presence. I am infinitely charmed by your inexhaustible
cleverness and wit. Who are you, sir? I do not know you. Please remove
your mask, that I may extend to you a friendly greeting.
CRISTOFORO. [_On the verge of tears_] It is I, Lorenzo. I am Cristoforo.
Do you not know me?
LORENZO. [_With touching candour_] Why, how should I know you, sir, when
you wear so frightful a mask? I knew a Signor Cristoforo. He was my
friend from the cradle, and I loved him, but you I do not know. Remove
your mask, my dear sir, I beseech you.
CRISTOFORO. I were better thrown to the dogs. I can bear no more.
FRANCESCA. Signor Cristoforo!
LORENZO. What ails the gentleman? Why does his mask change so oddly? I am
extremely sorry, sir, and I should be infinitely pleased to learn who you
are, but, pardon me, I do not recognise you. And who is this funny fat
gentleman with the red nose? What a comical mask!
PETRUCCIO. I have just had the honour, sir— I am Petruccio, your overseer.
LORENZO. You mean you are wearing the mask of Petruccio.
PETRUCCIO. Yes, the mask of Petruccio.
LORENZO. [_Laughing_] A bad bargain, my dear sir. You made a poor choice.
My overseer is a great rascal and a knave, and his red nose did not come
from praying.
CRISTOFORO. My poor boy!
LORENZO. Ah, now I think of it, has any one of you gentlemen seen a
masker in red entwined with a serpent that stings her in the heart? Right
in this spot. They say [_laughing_]—they say [_laughing_] that it is my
heart. A capital joke! As if every one did not know that Lorenzo, Duke of
Spadaro, has no serpent in his heart.
ONE OF THE GUESTS. [_Incautiously_] You have wounded yourself on
something, Duke Lorenzo. There is blood on your doublet.
LORENZO. [_Eagerly_] Oh, that? Thereby hangs a very strange story,
gentlemen. It sounds like a fairy-tale. While I was in the tower, some
stranger who had concealed his face under a hideous mask, extinguished
the light, fell upon me in the darkness, and stabbed me in the back. As
you see, gentlemen, the dagger entered under the left shoulder-blade and
came out here at the breast. It was a skilful, if treacherous, stroke. My
heart was pierced straight through.
FRANCESCA. [_Endeavouring to distract LORENZO’S attention from the wound,
which, throwing open his doublet, he eagerly displays_] Lorenzo!
LORENZO. See, ladies and gentlemen, what a master-stroke!
FRANCESCA. Look at me, Lorenzo. Why do you not smile upon me? I am sad
when you do not smile. It is as if the sun had set for ever.
LORENZO. You are charming, Signora. I see only your supple figure and
your tiny foot, but permit me, my divinity, to make so bold as to peep
into your eyes— How they shine! Even through the openings of this ugly
black mask I can see how beautiful they are. Who are you, madam? I do not
know you.
FRANCESCA. God in heaven! Do you not recognise me, Lorenzo?
LORENZO. [_With the same touching candour as before_] Take off your mask,
madam, I beseech you. Your question is a strange one. Take off your mask,
madam, and I will greet you willingly and cordially. By your stature I
should take you to be Signora Emilia; but no [_he shakes his head_],
Signora Emilia is not so shapely. Who are you?
FRANCESCA. [_Weeping_] I am your wife, Lorenzo, your wife, Donna
Francesca. My love, do you not remember that name—Francesca?
LORENZO. [_Knitting his brows_] Francesca? Did you say Francesca? Yes,
that was my wife’s name. True, that was my wife’s name. But I have lost
my wife. Have you not heard, madam? There is no Donna Francesca any more.
FRANCESCA. Remember how you loved me, Lorenzo. Look into my eyes. You
said that among a thousand women you would recognise me by the eyes
alone. Listen to my voice, Lorenzo—you are not looking at me.
LORENZO. [_Gently reproachful_] Your voice is tender and kind, my lady.
I hear in it the utterance of a virgin heart. Why do you inflict this
painful jest upon me? You are cruel, my dear lady. You should not mock
Lorenzo or twist the dagger in his bosom. I have lost my wife. Her name
was Donna Francesca, and I have lost her.
FRANCESCA. If you do not believe me, my love, at least give me leave to
touch with my lips your blood-stained wound. By the tenderness of her
kiss you will recognise your Francesca. [_She bends forward to kiss the
wound._
LORENZO. [_With an expression of extreme pain and horror, thrusting her
away_] What are you about, madam? You are drinking my blood. Have mercy
on me, I beg of you. You have fastened yourself on my heart and you are
drinking my blood. You hurt me. Leave me, pray.
_DONNA FRANCESCA weeps. LORENZO, shrinking from her with an
expression of suffering and extreme terror, tries to cover the
wound, but his hands tremble._
LORENZO. [_Covering the wound and making an effort to smile_] A bitter
jest, my friends. You saw how this vampire fastened herself upon my heart?
CRISTOFORO. [_Angrily_] You are crazy, Lorenzo, this is your wife!
A GENTLEMAN. He has insulted you, Donna Francesca.
FRANCESCA. [_Ceases weeping and speaks angrily_] It is you who insult
him, sir! Lorenzo, Duke of Spadaro, cannot insult a woman even though he
be insane.
LORENZO. [_To PETRUCCIO, in a low voice_] What is the trouble, Signor?
What has disturbed this charming masker?
PETRUCCIO. I do not know.
FRANCESCA. Call the musicians, Petruccio.
LORENZO. [_Joyfully_] Yes, yes, call the musicians.
FRANCESCA. [_Tenderly_] I beg you to be attentive, my dear Lorenzo.
Signor Romualdo will now sing for us the charming song that you
dedicated to me in the bright days of our love.
LORENZO. You are jesting again, madam. I never loved you.
FRANCESCA. [_Greatly distressed_] Do not listen to him, my friends. I beg
you to be seated, Duke, and, if you will permit me, I will sit beside
you. Signor Romualdo, show the Duke the song which he wrote with his own
hand in the bright days of our love. Do you recognise your handwriting,
my dear Lorenzo?
LORENZO. [_Courteously_] Show it to me, Signor. Yes, that is my writing,
and a capital joke it is, too. [_Glancing at FRANCESCA_] But here is
written: “To my love, to my bride, the charming Donna Francesca.”
[_Suspiciously_] How did this sheet come into your hands, madam?
FRANCESCA. [_Hastily_] Signor Romualdo, I beg you to begin. We are
listening.
_Strains of soft and beautiful music flooded with sunshine and
with the charm of youth and love._
ROMUALDO. [_Singing_] “My soul is an enchanted castle. I have lighted my
castle with lights. I have lighted my castle with lights.”
LORENZO. [_Searching his memory_] I seem to have heard those words
before. Continue, Signor.
ROMUALDO. [_Singing_] “And the sun entered my charming castle. The black
shadows fled affrighted, and an infinite joy, the revellings of a bright
and happy soul, gave wings to my thoughts, O Donna Francesca! O Donna
Francesca!”
LORENZO. The singer speaks falsely, my friends. I never wrote that.
ROMUALDO. [_Singing_] “And on wings of fancy my flaming spirit ascended
to heaven. And on wings of fancy my flaming spirit ascended to heaven.”
LORENZO. [_Rising and hailing ROMUALDO with an angry gesture_] Stop,
singer. Do not listen to him, my friends. He lies. He is deceiving you.
I remember the words. Luigi, you villain, obey me. If you err even in
a single note I will have you hanged to-morrow from the castle walls.
Attention, ladies and gentlemen. [_Through the windows the far-off
mountain tops stand out from the darkness as if touched by the red glow
of sunset. From somewhere behind the MUSICIANS comes the wild music
that was played at the ball, but no one hears it_] Right, right, Luigi.
[_Singing_] “I, the insane Lorenzo, have lighted up my tower and hither
will come those whom I invited not. And the lights in the tower will go
out, and my soul will be shrouded in darkness and will rejoice in thee,
my lord, my master, ruler of the world—Satan.”
_Cries of indignation and horror. Many, terrified, leave their
places and crowd about the columns._
A VOICE. He is calling upon Satan.
SECOND VOICE. He says that Satan is lord of the world. Sacrilege!
Sacrilege! Sacrilege!
CRISTOFORO. Awake, madman, you are the son of a crusader.
A LADY. [_To a gentleman_] Look, the sun is setting a second time!
VOICES. The sun! the sun! Look, the sun has appeared again!
CRISTOFORO. [_Stamping his foot_] Even though you are insane, even though
you are my master, Duke Lorenzo, I throw down my gauntlet to you.
_The others seize him. The light outside grows stronger and
seems to be mixed with flame and blood. The mountains are no
longer visible._
VOICES. Look! Look! See what is happening to the sky.
FRANCESCA. Duke Lorenzo is mad, Signor Cristoforo, and cannot do you the
honour of crossing swords with you, but in the name of his son, whom I
bear in my bosom, I accept your challenge. [_She takes up the glove._
VOICES. The Duchess expects a son. Donna Francesca expects a son. Poor
Lorenzo! Poor Lorenzo!
LORENZO. [_Recovering from a profound reverie_] What has happened? I
thought I heard the sound of a naked sword. Who dares to draw his sword
in the presence of Duke Lorenzo? I showed you honour, my friends, and
invited you to my festival. You outrage my hospitality.
VOICES. Look! Something has happened to the sky. There is a fire
somewhere. See, the heavens are ablaze! What has happened? There is a
fire somewhere.
LORENZO. [_Looking through the window and speaking with elation_] That
is the beginning of my holiday, my friends. To our joyful banquet will
come one more guest. I commend him to your attention. His eyes are fire,
his bright locks are clouds of gilded smoke, his voice is the roar of the
impetuous flame that devours stone, and his godlike visage is flame and
fire and boundless, pellucid light. Such a masker, ladies and gentlemen,
you have never seen!
_The light outside becomes stronger. Frightened cries.
Commotion. Voices._
VOICES. Satan! Satan! He calls on Satan. See, the heavens are on fire,
the earth is ablaze! Save yourselves! He is summoning Satan.
LORENZO. [_Raising his voice_] Who dares to speak here the foul name of
Satan? I thought I heard a strange song. Some madman, deserving of curses
and death, called out in tremulous prayer the name of Satan.
CRISTOFORO. It was you, Lorenzo. You are the vassal of Satan.
LORENZO. I? Oh, no, sir. You imagined it. These charming masks beget so
many ridiculous misunderstandings. Some jester, assuming my voice and
features, has long been deceiving you with a base falsehood.
CRISTOFORO. But you yourself called on the name of Satan.
LORENZO. Oh, no, my friends. [_Falling on his knees and speaking with
solemnity_] He whom I have invited to my festival and who now deigns to
appear—uncover, gentlemen—is the Lord God, the ruler of heaven and earth.
On your knees, knights and ladies. [_Nearly all kneel. Several weep.
Low exclamations_: “God in heaven! God in heaven!” _ECCO, the jester,
rushes in, all ablaze, and runs frantically about the hall. The SERVANTS,
shouting, pursue him_] To me, Ecco; I am here.
MARIO. Seize the villain. He has fired the tower.
PIETRO. He has strewn fire about, and the castle is burning on all sides.
Save yourselves, ladies and gentlemen. In a moment the fire will seize
upon the staircase.
MANUCCI. We must kill him. Strike him! Strike him!
LORENZO. [_To whose knees presses the blazing and almost blinded jester_]
Back! Who dares touch the messenger of God? Back, sirs! [_He draws his
sword._
ECCO. [_Trembling_] Is it you, Lorenzo? I am blinded. The fire has burned
out my eyes. Do not drive me away, Lorenzo.
LORENZO. Brother, you shall greet our great Master along with me.
_The window-glass crashes. Above appear tongues of flame
commingled with volumes of black smoke. Panic and flight.
Shouts._
VOICES. Save yourselves! Save yourselves!
FRANCESCA. Fly, Lorenzo, fly!
LORENZO. Your heart has stopped beating, Ecco. Hold fast to life for at
least a moment. He comes, Ecco.
ECCO. [_Trembling_] Is he coming? Do you see him?
LORENZO. I hear him, Ecco.
ECCO. I am dying, Lorenzo. But do you tell him that I am your little
brother.
LORENZO. I will tell him.
ECCO. [_Growing calmer_] You know—they gave me some bells—I forgot to cut
them off—I am dying, Lorenzo.
FRANCESCA. Fly, Lorenzo!
CRISTOFORO. Do you not see, madam, that he is mad? If you will permit me,
I will take him in my arms, as I did when he was a child, and carry him
away.
_He approaches LORENZO, but, encountering the point of his
sword, steps back._
LORENZO. Stand back, sir.
CRISTOFORO. Well, come on, then. [_He draws his sword._
FRANCESCA. Go, Signor Cristoforo. Do not dare to touch that which belongs
to God alone.
CRISTOFORO. Well, be it so. But I shall not leave without you, my lady.
FRANCESCA. I leave you, Lorenzo. In the name of your unborn son, I leave
you and renounce the happiness of dying with you. But I shall tell your
son, Lorenzo, how the Almighty called you to himself, and he will bless
your name.
_The fire breaks through everywhere._
CRISTOFORO. Quick, madam, quick!
FRANCESCA. Farewell, my Lorenzo; farewell, my beloved; farewell.
LORENZO. Farewell, Signora. I regret that you wear a mask. Your voice and
your words remind me of Donna Francesca. I beg of you, Signora, bear to
her my last farewell.
FRANCESCA. Farewell.
CRISTOFORO. Come! Away! Away!
_He takes DONNA FRANCESCA in his arms and, making his way
through the clouds of smoke, carries her out. There remain only
LORENZO and ECCO, the latter having fallen at LORENZO’S feet.
The fire spreads over everything. Outside the broken windows
and the ruined doors, in the midst of the black volumes of
smoke, appear the BLACK MASKERS. One can see their ineffectual
efforts to enter the castle, their silent struggle with the
fire, which lightly and buoyantly tosses them back. Again and
again they rush forward, only to fall back writhing with pain._
LORENZO. Up, Ecco, the Lord is coming. [_He touches ECCO, but the jester
falls lifeless from him. The flames now completely surround them.
The BLACK MASKERS have disappeared. The crackling and roaring of the
triumphant fire is heard. Solemnly_] I greet thee, O Lord. While I still
lay in the cradle my father touched me with his sword and consecrated me
a Knight of the Holy Ghost. Do thou touch me, O Lord, if I am worthy of
thy accolade. [_Falling on his knees_] But this truth, I aver, O Lord,
is known to all people in the world: Lorenzo, Duke of Spadaro, has no
serpent in his heart!
[_The fire envelops him. Everything falls in ruins._
_Curtain._
THE LIFE OF MAN
A DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS
WITH A PROLOGUE
PROLOGUE
_A BEING IN GREY called HE speaks of the life of MAN. The scene
resembles a large, rectangular, perfectly empty room, without
doors or windows. Everything in it is grey and misty and of
uniform colour: grey walls, grey ceiling, grey floor. From an
invisible source comes a feeble, diffused light, which, also
grey, is monotonous, uniform, and unreal, casting neither
shadows nor spots of light. The BEING IN GREY comes gradually
into view against the background of the wall, with which he
has been merged. He wears a broad, shapeless, grey robe which
vaguely outlines the contours of a large body. Upon his head
there is a heavy grey scarf which throws a dark shadow over the
upper part of his face. The eyes are not visible. That which
is visible—the cheek-bones, nose, and sharp chin—is massive
and solid, as if hewn from grey stone. The lips are firmly
compressed. Slightly raising his head, he begins to speak in
a firm, cold voice, calm and passionless, like a hired lector
reading with severe indifference the Book of Fate_:
“Look and listen, ye who have come hither for mirth and laughter. Lo,
there will pass before you all the life of Man, with its dark beginning
and its dark end. Hitherto non-existent, mysteriously hidden in infinite
time, without thought or feeling, utterly unknown, he will mysteriously
break through the barriers of non-existence and with a cry will announce
the beginning of his brief life. In the night of non-existence will
blaze up a candle, lighted by an unseen hand. This is the life of Man.
Behold its flame. It is the life of Man.
“After birth he will take on the image and the name of man, and in all
respects he will be like other people who already live on the earth, and
their cruel fate will be his fate, and his cruel fate will be the fate
of all people. Irresistibly dragged on by time, he will tread inevitably
all the steps of human life, upward to its climax and downward to its
end. Limited in vision, he will not see the step to which his unsure foot
is already raising him. Limited in knowledge, he will never know what
the coming day or hour or moment is bringing to him. And in his blind
ignorance, worn by apprehension, harassed by hopes and fears, he will
complete submissively the iron round of destiny.
“Behold him, a happy youth. See how brightly the candle burns. The icy
wind blowing from infinite space puffs and whirls about, causing the
flame to flutter. The candle, however, burns clearly and brightly, though
the wax is melting, consumed by the fire. The wax is melting.
“Lo, he is a happy husband and father. Yet look! How dim and strange
the candle glimmers, as if the flame were a yellowing leaf, as if the
flame were shivering and shielding itself from the cold. For the wax is
melting, consumed by the fire. The wax is melting.
“Lo, now he is an old man, feeble and sick. The path of life has been
trodden to its end and now the dark abyss has taken its place, but he
still presses on with tottering foot. The livid flame, bending toward
the earth, flutters feebly, trembles and sinks, trembles and sinks, and
quietly goes out.
“Thus Man will die. Coming from the night he will return to the night.
Bereft of thought, bereft of feeling, unknown to all, he will perish
utterly, vanishing without trace into infinity. And I, whom men call He,
will be the faithful companion of Man throughout all the days of his
life and in all his pathways. Unseen by Man and his companions, I shall
unfailingly be near him both in his waking and in his sleeping hours;
when he prays and when he curses; in hours of joy when his free and bold
spirit soars high; in hours of depression and sorrow when his weary soul
is overshadowed by deathlike gloom and the blood in the heart is chilled;
in hours of victory and defeat; in the hours of heroic struggle with the
inevitable I shall be with him—I shall be with him.
“And ye who have come hither for mirth, ye who are doomed to die, look
and listen. Lo, the swiftly flowing life of Man will pass before you,
with its sorrows and its joys, like a far-off, thin reflection.”
_The BEING IN GREY ceases, and in the silence the light goes
out and darkness envelops him and the grey, empty room._
_Curtain._
ACT I
THE BIRTH OF MAN AND THE SUFFERINGS OF THE MOTHER
_A profound darkness within which nothing moves. Then there can
be dimly perceived the outlines of a large, high room and the
grey silhouettes of OLD WOMEN in strange garments who resemble
a troop of grey, hiding mice. In low voices and with laughter
to and fro the OLD WOMEN converse._
CONVERSATION OF THE OLD WOMEN
What I should like to know is whether our friend will have a son or a
daughter.
What difference does that make to you?
I like boys.
And I like girls. They always stay at home and wait until you come to
them.
But do you like to make calls?
_Subdued laughter._
He knows.
He knows.
_Silence._
Our friend would like a girl. She says that boys are too rough, that they
are venturesome and seek dangers. When they are still quite small they
like to climb tall trees and swim in deep water, and often they fall, and
often they drown. And when they become men they start wars and kill each
other.
She thinks that girls don’t drown, but I have seen many drowned girls
just the same, and they were like all drowned people—wet and greenish.
She thinks stones don’t kill girls.
Poor thing! Childbirth is so hard for her. Here we have been sitting for
sixteen hours and she is still crying. At first she cried loud so that
her shrieks hurt your ears, then lower, and now she only gasps and moans.
The doctor says she’ll die.
No, the doctor says the child will die and that she will be left alive.
Why do they have children? It is so painful.
Why do they die? That is still more painful.
_Subdued laughter._
Yes, they bear children and they die.
And again bear children.
_They laugh. The low cry of the suffering woman is heard._
It has begun again.
Her voice has come back. That’s good.
That’s good.
The poor husband! He is so distracted that he is funny to look at. At
first he was glad that he was to have a child, and said that he wanted
a boy. He thought that his son would be an ambassador or a general. But
now he doesn’t want anything, neither a boy nor a girl, and he only runs
about distractedly and weeps.
When her throes begin, he strains too, and flushes.
When they sent him to the drug store for some medicine he rode up and
down past the store for two hours and could not remember what he wanted.
So he came back.
_Subdued laughter. The crying again becomes louder and then
dies away. Silence._
What has happened to her? Perhaps she is already dead.
No, in that case we should hear weeping. The doctor would run out and
begin to talk nonsense, and they would bring out her husband unconscious,
and we should have our hands full. No, she is not dead.
Then why are we sitting here?
Ask Him. How should we know?
He won’t tell.
He won’t tell. He tells nothing.
He drives us here and there. He rouses us from our beds and makes us
watch, and then it turns out that there was no need of our coming.
We came of our own accord. Didn’t we come of our own accord? You must be
fair to Him. There, she is crying again. Aren’t you satisfied?
Are _you_?
I am saying nothing. I am saying nothing and waiting.
How kind-hearted you are!
_Laughter. The cries become louder._
How she screams! What pain she suffers! You know these pains? They are
like having the entrails torn out.
We have all borne children.
How strange her voice is! I don’t recognise the voice of our friend. It
is usually soft and gentle.
But this cry is more like the howl of a wild animal. One can feel the
night in this cry.
One can feel in it hopelessness and terror. It is like an endless dark
forest.
One can feel solitude and anguish in it. Can it be that no one is with
her? Why are there no other voices but this wild cry?
There _are_ voices, but you cannot hear them. Haven’t you noticed how
solitary a human shriek always is? All may be talking, but you don’t
hear them; yet if only one shrieks, it is as if everything were silent
and listening.
I once heard a man shriek. A wagon had crushed his foot. Though the
street was full of people, it was as if he were actually the only one
there.
But this is more frightful.
Rather say louder.
More prolonged, I should say.
No, it is more frightful. You can feel death in it.
Well, you could feel death there, too. The man died.
Stop quarrelling! Isn’t it all the same to you?
_Silence. A scream._
How strange is a human cry! When you yourself cry out in agony, you do
not notice how strange it is—how strange it is!
I can’t picture to myself the mouth that is uttering those sounds. Can it
be the mouth of a woman? I cannot picture it.
But you can feel that it is all distorted.
The sound seems to be born in some abyss. Now it is like the cry of a
drowning person. Listen, she’s gasping.
Some heavy thing is lying on her chest.
Some one is stifling her.
_The cries cease._
At last she has ceased. One gets tired of it. The cry is so monotonous
and ugly.
Oh, you want beauty here, too, do you?
_Subdued laughter._
Sh! Is He here?
I don’t know.
I think He is.
He doesn’t like laughter.
They say He laughs himself.
Who ever saw Him laugh? You are simply repeating rumours. They tell so
many lies about Him.
He will hear us. Let’s be serious.
_Subdued laughter._
Just the same, I’d like to know whether it will be a boy or a girl.
Yes, it’s interesting to know with whom you have to deal.
I’d rather it would be still-born.
How kind-hearted!
No more than you.
Well, I want him to become a general.
_Laughter._
You laugh too much. I don’t like it.
And I don’t like your glumness.
Stop quarrelling! Stop quarrelling! We are all of us both mirthful and
gloomy. Let each one be as she likes.
_Silence._
They are awfully queer when they are born. Funny little things!
And so self-satisfied.
And they demand so much. I don’t like them. They begin right off to cry
and to insist, as if everything ought to be ready for them. Even before
they can see they know that there is a breast and milk and insist on
having them. And then they demand that they be laid to sleep. And then
they demand to be rocked and to have their little red backs gently
patted. I like them better when they die. Then they are less insistent.
They straighten themselves out and don’t ask to be rocked.
Yes, they are very funny. I like to wash them when they are born.
I like to wash them when they are dead.
Stop quarrelling! Stop quarrelling! Every one shall have her own way.
One will wash the child when it is born, another when it dies.
But why do they think they have a right to make demands as soon as they
are born? I don’t like that.
They don’t think. It is the stomach that insists.
They are always insisting.
Because no one gives them what they need.
_Subdued laughter. The cries in the next room are renewed._
She is crying out again.
Animals have an easier time.
And they die easier and live easier. I have a cat. If you could only see
how fat and contented she is!
And I have a dog; and every day I say to her: “You are going to die.” But
she only grins and cheerfully wags her tail.
Well, they are animals.
Well, these are people.
_Laughter._
Either she is dying or the crisis has come. In this cry you can feel the
limit of her strength.
You can feel the rolling eyes.
And the cold sweat on her forehead.
_They listen._
The child is being born.
No, the mother is dying.
_The cries are suddenly broken off._
I tell you——
THE BEING IN GREY. [_Speaks in a clear and powerful voice_] Silence! Man
is born.
_Almost simultaneously with his words the cry of a child is
heard, and the candle in his hand flames up. The tall candle
burns with a feeble, uncertain light, but gradually the flame
becomes stronger. The corner in which the BEING IN GREY stands
motionless is darker than the other corners, and the yellow
flame of the candle illuminates the square chin, the firmly
compressed lips, and the large, bony cheeks. The upper part
of the face is hidden by the heavy folds of the scarf. He is
somewhat larger than an ordinary man._
_The candle, long and thick, is set in a candlestick of antique
workmanship. Against the green bronze his hand stands out grey
and firm, with long, slender fingers._
_As it grows slowly brighter there emerge from the darkness the
outlines of the room and the figures of five hunchbacked OLD
WOMEN in outlandish robes. The room is high and rectangular,
with smooth, uniformly tinted walls. In front of the spectator,
and also at his right, are two tall windows with eight panes of
glass each and without curtains. The night looks in through the
windows. Along the wall stand chairs with tall, straight backs._
THE OLD WOMEN. [_Hastily_] Hear them running about. They are coming here.
How light it is! Let’s go.
Look, the candle is tall and the flame is bright.
Let’s go; let’s go. Quick!
But we’ll come back!
But we’ll come back!
_They laugh softly and in the dim light glide out with odd,
zigzag movements, interchanging laughter. On their departure
the light, though it grows stronger, remains comparatively
dull, lifeless, and cold. The corner in which the BEING IN GREY
stands motionless with the burning candle, is darker than the
other corners._
_Enter the DOCTOR, in a white surgeon’s coat, and the FATHER
OF MAN. The face of the latter wears a happy though wearied
expression. Under his eyes are blue circles. His cheeks are
hollow and his hair is dishevelled. He is carelessly dressed.
The DOCTOR has a learned air._
DOCTOR. Up to the last moment I was uncertain whether your wife would
remain among the living or not. I used all my skill and knowledge,
but our science means little if nature does not come to our aid. I am
much agitated. How my pulse beats even now! Although I have helped so
many children to come into the world, to this day I cannot avoid this
excitement. But you are not listening to me, sir!
FATHER OF MAN. I am listening, but I hear nothing. Her cries are still
ringing in my ears, and I find it hard to understand. Poor woman! How she
suffered! Fool that I was, insane, to wish for children! I now renounce
this criminal desire.
DOCTOR. But you will call me when the next one is born.
FATHER. That will never be. I am ashamed to say it, but at this moment I
hate the child for whom she suffered so. I have not even seen it. What is
it like?
DOCTOR. It is a strong, well-nourished boy and, if I am not mistaken,
resembles you.
FATHER. Resembles me? How delightful! Now I begin to love it. I have
always wished to have a son like myself. Did you notice whether his nose
is like mine?
DOCTOR. Yes, his nose and his eyes.
FATHER. His eyes, too? Oh, fine! I will pay you more than I agreed.
DOCTOR. I must have an extra fee for the use of the forceps.
FATHER. [_Turning to the corner where HE stands motionless_] O God, I
thank thee for fulfilling my desire and giving me a son like to myself.
I thank thee that my wife did not die and that the child lives. And I beg
thee so to order his life that he may grow up strong and healthy and be
wise and honest, and that he may never bring grief upon us—upon me and
his mother. If thou doest this, I shall ever believe in thee and go to
church. And now I dearly love my son.
_Enter the KINSPEOPLE, six in number. One is an unusually
tall, elderly lady with double chin and small, haughty eyes.
She is extremely dignified and proud. An elderly gentleman
in spectacles, her husband, is very tall and so excessively
thin that his garments hang about him. He has a pointed beard
like a goat’s, and his hair, smooth as though pomaded, reaches
to his shoulders. He seems timid, but nevertheless has an
air of wisdom. In his hand he carries a low, black silk hat.
A young girl, their daughter, has a silly, turned-up nose,
blinking eyes, and open mouth. There is also a thin lady with
an extremely uncomfortable and sour expression. She holds
in her hands a handkerchief with which she frequently wipes
her mouth. Two YOUNG MEN, exactly alike, display unusually
tall collars which hold their necks stiffly up. They have
smoothly plastered hair and wear an expression of perplexity
and absent-mindedness. In each character all of the qualities
mentioned are carried to an extreme._
ELDERLY LADY. Allow me, dear brother, to congratulate you on the birth of
your son. [_She kisses him._
GENTLEMAN. Allow me, my dear kinsman, to congratulate you heartily on the
birth of a son so long expected. [_He kisses him._
THE OTHERS. Allow us, dear kinsman, to congratulate you on the birth of
your son.
[_They kiss him. The DOCTOR withdraws._
FATHER. [_Deeply moved_] I thank you, I thank you. You are all so very
good. You are such kind and affectionate people. I love you dearly.
Heretofore I had my doubts, and I thought that you, dear sister, were
somewhat absorbed in yourself and your virtues, and that you, dear
brother-in-law, were somewhat pedantic, and of the others I thought that
they were cool toward me and only came for the dinner. But now I see that
I was wrong. I am extremely happy. A son is born to me. A son is born to
me like myself, and aside from that I see here so many good people who
love me.
[_They kiss._
YOUNG GIRL. What are you going to name your son, dear uncle? I should so
like him to have a beautiful, poetic name. With a man so much depends on
the name.
ELDERLY LADY. I should like the name to be simple and substantial. People
with beautiful names are always rattle-brained and rarely succeed in life.
ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. I think, dear brother-in-law, that you ought to name
your son for some one of your older kinsmen. That has the effect of
continuing and strengthening the family.
FATHER. Yes, my wife and I have already thought about it, but we could
not come to a decision. So many new ideas and interests come with the
birth of a child.
ELDERLY LADY. It rounds out one’s life.
ELDERLY GENTLEMAN. It gives life a beautiful purpose. In bringing up
a child, by saving him from the errors of which we ourselves were the
victims, by storing his mind from our own rich experience, we produce
a better man and slowly but surely move toward the final goal of
existence—perfection.
FATHER. You are perfectly right, my dear brother-in-law. When I was small
I was very fond of torturing animals, and this developed in me a strain
of harshness. I shall not allow my son to torture animals. Even after
I was grown up, I frequently made mistakes in friendship and love. I
selected unworthy friends and perfidious women. I will explain to my son——
_The DOCTOR enters and speaks in a loud voice._
DOCTOR. Sir, your wife is very ill. She wishes to see you.
FATHER. O heavens! [_He goes out with the DOCTOR._
_The KINSPEOPLE seat themselves in a semicircle and for some
time maintain an impressive silence. In the corner the BEING IN
GREY stands motionless with his stony face turned toward them._
CONVERSATION OF THE KINSPEOPLE
Can it be, my dear wife, that our kinswoman will die?
No, I hardly think so.
Having very little patience, she makes too much of her suffering. All
women bear children, and no one dies. I myself have borne six children.
But she screamed so, mamma.
Yes, her face was flushed with screaming. I noticed that.
That was not from screaming. That was because she had to strain so. You
don’t understand these things. My face has been flushed, too, but I never
screamed. A friend of ours, the wife of the engineer, recently bore a
child, and she hardly cried at all.
Yes, I know. My brother is needlessly worried. One must be firmer and
take a calmer view of things. I am afraid that when he comes to bring up
the child he will make him visionary and dissolute.
He lacks will-power. Though he has little money, yet he loans to
untrustworthy people.
Do you know how much the child’s linen cost?
Oh, don’t mention it! My brother’s folly is so trying. He and I have had
arguments on this subject before.
They say storks bring babies. Storks!
_The YOUNG GENTLEMEN snicker._
Stop your silliness. I have had five children, and, thank God, I am no
stork.
_The YOUNG GENTLEMEN snicker again, and the ELDERLY LADY looks
at them severely for a long time._
You should understand that this is a superstition. Children are born in a
perfectly natural manner, on strictly scientific principles.
They live in another flat now.
Who?
The engineer and his wife. Their old quarters turned out to be very damp
and cold. They complained several times to the landlord, but he paid no
attention.
In my opinion a small, warm flat is better than a large, damp one. In a
damp flat one might die of catarrh or rheumatism.
One of my acquaintances has a very damp flat.
And one of mine, too—very damp.
There are so many damp flats nowadays.
But tell me, please—I have been wanting to ask you for ever so long—how
can grease spots be taken out of white cloth?
Wool?
No, silk.
_Cries of the child in the other room._
Take a small piece of clean ice and rub the place where the spot is real
hard, and when you have rubbed it real hard take a hot iron and smooth it.
You don’t say so! How simple! But I have heard that borax water is better.
No, borax water is good only for dark cloth. For white cloth ice is the
best thing.
I say, may one smoke here? I somehow never happened to think whether it
would be proper to smoke where a child had just been born.
Nor I. How strange! At funerals I know it is quite improper to smoke, but
here——
What nonsense! Of course you can smoke.
However, smoking is in general a bad habit. You are still a very young
man. I should advise you to attend to your health. In the course of one’s
life so many occasions arise when one needs one’s health.
But tobacco is stimulating.
Believe me, it is a very unwholesome stimulation. When I was young and
thoughtless I used tobacco to excess.
Oh, mamma, how it cries! How it cries, mamma! Does it want milk?
_The YOUNG GENTLEMEN snicker. The ELDERLY LADY looks severely
at them._
_Curtain._