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Title: Plays by Leonid Andreyeff
        The black maskers; The life of man; The Sabine women

Author: Leonid Andreyeff

Contributor: V. V. Brusyanin

Translator: Clarence L. Meader
        Fred Newton Scott


        
Release date: March 19, 2026 [eBook #78247]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1915

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78247

Credits: Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PLAYS BY LEONID ANDREYEFF ***




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._




ACT II

LOVE AND POVERTY


    _The scene is flooded with a bright, warm light. A large, very
    high, and very bare room. The walls, of a light rose-colour,
    are perfectly smooth and covered in places with a fantastic
    and beautiful lacework of damp lines and spots. In the right
    wall are two tall windows, each with eight panes of glass and
    without curtains. The night looks in through them. There are
    two wretched beds, two chairs, and a table without a spread.
    On the table stands a beautiful bouquet of wild flowers and a
    half-broken pitcher containing water._

    _In one corner, which is darker than the other corners, stands
    the BEING IN GREY. The candle in his hand is diminished by one
    third, but the white flame is still bright and high and throws
    brilliant spots of light on his stony face and chin._

    _The NEIGHBOURS enter, dressed in bright, gay garments. Their
    hands are filled with flowers and grasses and fresh, green
    branches of oak and birch. They move about the room. Their
    faces are open, cheerful, and kindly._

CONVERSATION OF THE NEIGHBOURS

How poor they are! Just see, they haven’t a single extra chair!

Nor curtains at the windows——

Nor pictures on the walls——

How poor they are! See, they have nothing to eat but stale bread——

And nothing but water to drink—cold water from a well.

And they have no extra clothing, either. She always wears her
rose-coloured dress with the open neck, which makes her look like a young
girl.

And he always wears his blouse and his fantastic necktie, which makes him
look like an artist and causes all the dogs to bark angrily at him——

And offends all proper people.

Dogs hate shabby people. Only yesterday I saw three dogs attack him,
and as he drove them away with a stick he cried: “Don’t you dare touch
my trousers! They are my only trousers!” Then he laughed, and the dogs
showed their teeth and rushed at him and howled with anger.

And to-day I saw two very respectable-looking people, a gentleman and a
lady, who, frightened by him, crossed to the other side of the street.
“He will ask us for money in a minute,” said the gentleman. “He will kill
us!” piped the lady. So they crossed the road, looking about and holding
their pockets. But he shook his head and laughed.

He is so cheerful.

They are always laughing.

And singing.

It’s he who sings; she dances.

In her rose-coloured dress with the open neck.

It is a delight to look at them. They are so young and radiant.

But I am so sorry for them. They are hungry. Just think of it, hungry!

Yes, that is so. They used to have much furniture and clothing, but they
have sold all and now they have nothing left to sell.

I remember she had beautiful earrings, and she sold them to buy bread.

And he had a handsome, black dress coat—his wedding-coat—and he sold it.

They have nothing left but their wedding-rings. How poor they are!

That’s nothing, that’s nothing! I was young myself once and I know what
it means.

What’s that you say, grandfather?

That’s nothing, that’s nothing!

Just see, merely thinking of them makes grandfather want to sing!

And dance!

    _Laughter._

He is so kind. He made my boy a bow and arrows.

And she wept with me when my daughter was sick.

He helped me mend my broken fence. He is a strong young fellow.

It’s a delight to have such good neighbours. Their youth warms our cold
age; their light-heartedness drives away our cares.

But their room is like a prison: it’s so empty.

No, it is like a temple: it’s so bright.

See, they have flowers on the table. She gathered them while she was
walking about the fields in her rose-coloured dress with the open neck.
Here are lilies-of-the-valley. The dew is not yet dry on them.

And here is flaming scarlet lychnis.

And here are violets.

And here is just green grass.

Don’t touch them, girls! Don’t touch the flowers! Don’t drop them on the
floor—her kisses are on them. Don’t breathe on them with your breath—her
breath is on them. Don’t touch them, girls! Don’t touch the flowers!

He will come and see the flowers.

He will take the kisses.

He will drink in her breath——

How poor they are! Yet how happy!

Let’s go. Let’s go away.

But has none of us brought anything for our dear neighbours? That would
be too bad!

I have brought a piece of fragrant, warm bread and a bottle of milk.
[_She puts it on the window-sill._

And I have brought some soft, tender grass. When it is scattered about
the door, the room is like a blossoming meadow and smells like spring.
[_She strews the grass on the floor._

And I have brought flowers. [_Strewing them._

And we have brought branches of birch and oak with green leaves. When the
walls are hung with them the room will look like a cheery, green forest.

They decorate the room, filling the dark windows and covering the bare,
rose-coloured walls with leaves.

I have brought a fine cigar. It is a very cheap one, but it is strong
and fragrant and will bring delightful dreams. [_He lays it on the
window-sill._

I have brought a rose-coloured ribbon. When you tie it in your hair it
makes you gay and beautiful. My lover gave it to me, but I have many
ribbons and she has none at all. [_She lays it on the window-sill._

How about you, grandfather? Haven’t you brought something?

Nothing. Nothing. I brought only my cough, and they don’t need that, do
they, neighbour?

No more than my crutches—Say, girls, who needs my crutches?

Do you remember, neighbour——?

And do you remember, neighbour——?

Let’s go to bed, neighbour. It’s already late.

    _They sigh and go out, one of them coughing and the other’s
    crutches clattering on the floor._

Let’s go! Let’s go!

God grant them happiness. They are such good neighbours.

God grant they may always be healthy and cheerful, and love each other,
and that no ugly black cat may ever run between them.

And that the young man may find work. It is bad when a man has no work.

    _They withdraw, and immediately the WIFE OF MAN enters, very
    beautiful, graceful, tender, and delicate, with flowers in her
    splendid, half-dishevelled hair. She is very sad. She seats
    herself in a chair and, laying her hands on her knees, speaks
    sorrowfully, her face toward the audience_:

I have just been to town and have been hunting. I don’t know what I was
hunting for. We are so poor. We have nothing. It is very hard for us to
live. We need money, but I don’t know how to get it. If you ask it of
people, they won’t give it; and I haven’t the strength to take it from
them. I was hunting for work, but no one gave me any work. They all said
to me: “There are so many people and so little work.” I kept my eyes on
the road, thinking perhaps some rich people might have dropped a purse,
but either they did not drop one or some one more fortunate than I had
already picked it up. And I am so sad. You see my husband will soon come
back from his hunt for work, tired out and hungry, and what can I give
him except my kisses? He cannot satisfy his hunger with kisses, can he? I
feel so sad. I’d like to cry.

I can go without eating for a long time. I don’t mind it. But he cannot.
He has a large body which demands nourishment, and when he has not eaten
for some time he becomes pitifully pale, and sick, and irritable. He
scolds me, but afterward he kisses me and asks me not to be angry. But I
never get angry, because I love him so. I am only sad.

My husband is a very talented architect; I even think he is a genius. His
parents died very early and left him an orphan. For some time after the
death of his parents his relatives supported him, but since he was always
very independent in character and brusque, and often said unpleasant
things, and did not express his gratitude, they cast him off. But he
continued to study, supporting himself by giving lessons, and often going
hungry. And so he finished his course in the university. He was often
hungry, my poor husband. Now he is an architect and makes designs of
beautiful buildings, but no one will buy them, and lots of stupid folks
even laugh at them. In order to get on one must have either a patron or
a stroke of good fortune. But he has neither patron nor good fortune.
He goes about, hunting for some opportunity or, perhaps, looking on the
ground for money as I did. He is still very young and is simple as a
child.

Of course, fortune will come to us sometime, but when? Meanwhile, it is
very hard to keep alive. When we were married we had a little dowry, but
we quickly used it up. We always went to the theatre and ate candy. He
still is hopeful, but I sometimes lose all hope and weep by myself. My
heart sinks when I think that he may be here at any moment and again find
nothing except my poor kisses.

O God, be a kind and merciful father to us! Thou hast so much of
everything—bread and work and money. Thy earth is so rich. It bears
fruits and grain in the fields and covers the meadows with flowers. From
its dark depths it yields up gold and beautiful precious stones. And thy
sun is so warm, and there is so much quiet joy in thy pensive stars. Give
us a little bread from thy bounty—even a very little—only so much as thou
givest thy birds, that my dear, good husband may not be hungry; a little
warmth, that he may not be cold, and a little work, that he may proudly
hold up his beautiful head. And pray do not be angry with my husband
because he scolds and laughs, or even sings and makes me dance. He is so
young and so light-hearted.

Now that I have prayed I feel better and again I have hope.

Really, why should God not give when we pray like this? I will go out
and hunt a little. Perhaps some one has dropped a purse or a sparkling
diamond.

    [_She goes out._

THE BEING IN GREY. She does not know that her wish is already fulfilled.
She does not know that this morning two men, in a costly house, bending
over a design of Man’s, eagerly scanned it and were delighted with it.
All day they have been hunting in vain for Man. Wealth has been seeking
him, as he is seeking wealth, and to-morrow morning when the neighbours
go away to work, an automobile will come to the house and two gentlemen,
bowing low, will enter the bare room and bring wealth and fame. But they
do not know this—neither he nor she. Thus fortune and happiness come to
Man, and thus they leave him.

    _MAN and his WIFE enter. MAN has a handsome, proud head, with
    flashing eyes and high forehead. His dark brows divide above
    his nose and spread like two bold wings. His wavy, black hair
    is carelessly thrown back. His low, soft, white collar displays
    a shapely neck and part of his chest. His movements are light
    and swift like those of a young animal, but the attitudes he
    takes are peculiar to MAN alone; they are masterful, free, and
    proud._

MAN. Again nothing. Pretty soon I shall go to bed and lie there all day
long. The people that need me can come and find me. I shall not go to
find them. To-morrow I am going to lie abed.

WIFE. Are you tired?

MAN. Yes, I am tired and hungry. Like Homer’s hero, I could eat a whole
bull, and here I have to be satisfied with a crust of stale bread. Do you
know that a man cannot always live on bread alone? I want to gnaw, tear,
bite!

WIFE. I am so sorry for you, dear.

MAN. Yes, I am sorry for myself, but that doesn’t satisfy my hunger.
To-day I stood for a whole hour in front of a lunch-room and gazed on the
chickens and the tarts and the sausages, just as people view works of
art. And oh, the signs! They can paint ham so exquisitely that one could
eat it, iron and all.

WIFE. I like ham, too.

MAN. Is there anybody who doesn’t like ham? Do you like lobsters?

WIFE. Yes, I do.

MAN. Oh, what a lobster I saw! Though he was only a painted lobster, he
was more handsome than a live one. Red as a cardinal, majestic, severe.
One might kneel to him for a blessing. I think that I could eat two such
cardinals and a carp thrown in.

WIFE. [_Sadly_] Didn’t you notice my flowers?

MAN. Flowers! Can you eat flowers?

WIFE. You don’t love me.

    _MAN kisses her._

MAN. Forgive me, but really I am so hungry. See how my hands shake. I
haven’t strength enough to throw a stone at a dog.

    _WIFE kisses his hand._

WIFE. Poor dear!

MAN. How did these leaves come to be on the floor? How sweet they smell!
Did you put them there, too?

WIFE. No; probably it was our neighbours.

MAN. Our neighbours are dear people. Strange that with so many good
people in the world a man can die of hunger. Why is it?

WIFE. You have become gloomy; you frown. Do you see anything?

MAN. Yes, before me, across my humorous fancies, a hideous image of
poverty glided stealthily and rose up yonder in the corner. Do you see
her? The pitiful, outstretched hands—like those of a child lost in the
woods—the voice appealing to the silence of the human desert: “Help me!”
No one hears. “Help me, I am dying!” No one hears. Look, Wife, look!
Look! The black shadows, trembling, float apart like wraiths of black
smoke from the long, dreadful chimney that leads down to hell. Look! I,
too, am in the midst of them!

WIFE. You terrify me. I cannot look in that dark corner. Did you see all
this on the street?

MAN. Yes, I saw it all on the street, and soon it will be here.

WIFE. No, God will not let it come to us.

MAN. Why does he let it come to others?

WIFE. We are better than others. We are good people. We do not anger him
in any way.

MAN. Do you think so? But I often scold.

WIFE. You are not wicked.

MAN. Yes, I am wicked, I am wicked. When I walk along the street and look
at the things that are not ours, I grow boar’s tusks. Oh, how much money
there is that is not mine! Listen, my dear little Wife. This evening
I was walking in the park, in that lovely park where the roads are
straight as arrows and the beautiful beech-trees are like crowned kings——

WIFE. And I was walking along the city streets, where there were stores
and stores, such beautiful stores——

MAN. Well-dressed people with canes passed me, and I thought: “I have
none of that.”

WIFE. Handsomely gowned women in well-fitting boots which make the foot
charming, in rustling silk skirts, and in elegant hats from beneath which
their eyes sparkled mysteriously, passed by me, and I thought: “I have no
fine hat, I have no silk skirt.”

MAN. One awkward fellow shouldered me aside, but I showed him my tusks
and he slunk cowardly behind the others.

WIFE. A finely dressed lady jostled me, but I was so embarrassed that I
did not even look at her.

MAN. Riders swept by me on proud and fiery horses, but I have no horse.

WIFE. And such diamonds were in her ears! I wanted to kiss them.

MAN. Red and green automobiles glided by noiselessly like phantoms with
blazing eyes, and people were sitting in them laughing and listlessly
glancing from side to side, but I have no automobile.

WIFE. And I have neither diamonds nor emeralds—not even a pure white
pearl.

MAN. On the shore of the lake glittered a luxurious restaurant with
lights like the kingdom of heaven, and people were eating there. There
were high officials in dress suits, and angels with white wings who
distributed beer and bread and butter, and people were eating and
drinking. Oh, I want to eat, little Wife, I want to eat!

WIFE. My dear boy, if you keep running about you will increase your
hunger. Come, sit down, and I will sit on your knees. Now, take a paper
and draw a beautiful, beautiful building.

MAN. But my genius is hungry, too, and it won’t sketch anything but
edible landscapes. For a long time my palaces have looked like big
dumplings stuffed with fat and my churches like sausages. But there are
tears in your eyes. What is the matter, little Wife?

WIFE. I am sad because I cannot help you.

MAN. You make me ashamed. Though I am a strong man, intelligent,
talented, and healthy, I can do nothing, while my little wife, my fairy,
weeps because she is not strong enough to help me. When woman weeps, man
is disgraced. I am ashamed of myself.

WIFE. You are not to blame if people cannot appreciate you.

MAN. I am blushing to the tips of my ears. I feel like a child whose ears
have been pulled. You, too, are hungry, and I, selfish creature that I
am, had not noticed it. I’m a brute.

WIFE. But, my dear, I am not hungry.

MAN. It is disgraceful, cowardly. That rude fellow who jostled me was
right. He saw that I was nothing but a fat pig, a boar with sharp tusks
and a stupid head.

WIFE. If you are going to scold yourself so unfairly, I shall begin to
cry again.

MAN. No, no. Don’t cry. When I see tears in your eyes I am always
terrified. I am afraid of those bright crystal drops. It is as if they
were shed not by you but by some one else, some frightful being. I won’t
let you cry. True, we have nothing, we are miserably poor; but I will
tell you what we are going to have. I will charm you with a beautiful
story. I will enwreath you, my queen, with rose-coloured dreams.

WIFE. You need not fear. You are strong and talented and you will
succeed. The moment of depression will pass, and a divine inspiration
will again throw its halo over your proud head.

MAN. [_Assumes an attitude of bold and proud defiance, and, throwing
an oak spray into the corner where the UNKNOWN stands, he cries_] Ho,
you, whatever your name may be—Destiny, the Devil, Life—I throw down
the gauntlet to you. I challenge you to battle. The faint-hearted bend
their knees before your mysterious power. Your stony face fills them with
horror. In your silence they hear the coming to birth of misfortune and
its ominous approach. But I am bold and strong, and I challenge you to
battle. Let our swords flash, let our shields ring, let the blows fall on
our heads—blows that will shake the earth. Come forth to battle!

WIFE. [_Approaching and standing close behind his left shoulder, speaks
earnestly_] Bolder, my dear, still bolder!

MAN. To your inertness, sinister being, I oppose my bold, living
strength. To your gloom I oppose my clear and ringing laughter. Parry the
blows! Against your stony face, in which there is no light of reason, I
hurl the projectile of my glowing thought. You have a heart of stone that
knows no pity. Stand aside! or I will pour into it the seething poison of
rebellion. The black cloud of your fierce wrath has darkened the sun. We
will light up the darkness with our swords. Ho! Parry the blows!

WIFE. Bolder, still bolder! Behind you stands your armour-bearer, my
proud knight.

MAN. If I conquer, I shall sing songs which all the world will echo; and
if I fall dumbly under your blows, then I shall think only of how I may
rise again and rush to battle. There are weak spots in my armour, I
know, but, though covered with wounds and dripping with crimson blood, I
shall yet gather strength to cry: “You have not yet conquered, malicious
enemy of mankind!”

WIFE. Bolder, my knight! I will wash your wounds with my tears. With my
kisses I will stanch the flow of your crimson blood.

MAN. And dying on the field of battle as brave men do, I shall mar your
brute pleasure with one last cry: “I have conquered!” I have conquered,
malicious foe, for with my last breath I shall refuse to acknowledge your
supremacy.

WIFE. Bolder, my knight, bolder! I will die with you.

MAN. Ho! Come forth to battle! Let our swords flash, let our shields
ring, let the blows fall on our heads, blows that will shake the earth.
Ho! Come forth!

    _For some time MAN and his WIFE remain in the same attitudes,
    and then they turn to each other and kiss._

MAN. Thus we shall share life together, my little Wife, shall we not?
Let life blink like an owl blinded by the sunshine, we will force her to
smile.

WIFE. And to dance to our songs—we two together!

MAN. We two. You are a good wife and a faithful friend. You are a brave
little woman, and as long as you and I are together nothing can terrify
us. What is poverty? To-day we are poor, and to-morrow we are rich.

WIFE. And what is hunger? To-day we are hungry, to-morrow we are filled.

MAN. Oh, you think so, do you? Perhaps, but it will take a great deal
to fill me. My hunger isn’t easily satisfied. Do you think this will be
plenty? In the morning, tea, coffee, chocolate—take your choice—and then,
after that, breakfast—three courses—then lunch, then dinner, then——

WIFE. Lots of fruit. I am so fond of fruit.

MAN. All right. I will buy it in baskets in the market. It is cheaper
there and fresher; though, to be sure, we shall have our own orchard.

WIFE. But we have no land.

MAN. I’ll buy some. For a long time I have wanted a little plat of my
own, and, by the way, I’ll build a house on it after my own design. I’ll
show the rascals what sort of architect I am!

WIFE. I want to live in Italy, right by the sea, in a white-marble
villa set in a grove of lemon-trees and cypresses; and I’d like some
white-marble steps leading straight down to the blue water.

MAN. I see. Good! But besides that I mean to build a castle in Norway
among the mountains: far below, the fiord; high up on the steep cliff,
the castle.—Haven’t we any paper? No matter, the wall will do. Here is
the fiord. Do you see it?

WIFE. Yes—how lovely!

MAN. The water is sparkling and deep. Here it reflects the tender, green
grass and there the red and black and brown stone. And see, here in the
opening, right where this spot is, a touch of deep-blue sky and a quiet,
white cloud——

WIFE. Look! A white boat is reflected in the water. It is like two white
swans, breast to breast.

MAN. And see, here the mountain rises from the cheerful green meadows and
forests, and, as it mounts, becomes more and more gloomy, more and more
severe. There are sharp cliffs, black shadows, precipices, ragged clouds——

WIFE. It is like a ruined fortress.

MAN. And see, on this fortress, right on this spot here in the centre, I
will build a castle fit for an emperor.

WIFE. How cold it is there, and how the wind blows!

MAN. Oh, but I’ll have thick stone walls, and there will be huge windows
of one large pane, and on winter nights, when the blizzard rages and the
fiord is roaring below, we will draw the curtains and kindle a fire in
the huge fireplace. There will be great andirons on which will burn whole
logs—whole forests of pitchy pine.

WIFE. Oh! How warm!

MAN. And see, how still! Everywhere rugs, and lots and lots of books
which radiate silent yet living warmth and comfort, and we two together.
Outside roars the storm, but here we are together in front of the
fireplace on a white bear’s skin. You say, “Shall we take a peek at
what’s going on outside?” and I say, “Very well,” and we go to the
largest window and draw the curtain. Heavens! What’s that?

WIFE. Whirling snow!

MAN. It sweeps by like white horses. Look, myriads of little frightened
spirits, white with terror, seeking refuge from the night! And the
whistling and the roaring——

WIFE. Oh, it’s cold! I am shivering.

MAN. Quick! Back to the fire. Here, give me my ancestral beaker. No, not
that one, the gold one that the vikings drank from. Fill it with golden
wine—more—let the fiery liquid rise to the very brim. There’s a chamois
roasting on the spit. Bring it here; I will eat it. Quick, or I will eat
you instead! I’m starved! I’m hungry as the devil!

WIFE. There, now; they’ve brought it. What are you going to do next?

MAN. What next? Why, eat it, of course. What else could be next? But what
are you doing with my head, little Wife?

WIFE. I am the Goddess of Fame. I have twined for you a wreath of the
oak leaves which our neighbours strewed, and I am crowning you. Fame has
come—glorious fame!

    [_She puts the wreath on his head._

MAN. Yes, fame, loud-voiced, echoing fame. Look at the wall. See, here I
go, and do you know who is by my side?

WIFE. Why, that’s me.

MAN. See, people are bowing to us. They are whispering about us. They
are pointing at us. See that respectable-looking old gentleman who falls
a-weeping and says: “Blessed is our native land to have such children!”
See that pale young man who is looking at us. Fame has smiled upon him,
also. By this time I have built the People’s Palace of which our whole
country is so proud.

WIFE. You are my glorious hero! The oak wreath becomes you, but a laurel
wreath would be even better.

MAN. Look! look! Here are representatives of the city where I was born
coming to me. They bow low and say: “Our city is proud of the honour——”

WIFE. Oh!

MAN. What’s the matter?

WIFE. I have found a bottle of milk!

MAN. Impossible!

WIFE. And bread—soft, fragrant bread—and a cigar!

MAN. Impossible! You have made a mistake. What you think is milk is only
the dampness from this accursed wall.

WIFE. No, indeed!

MAN. A cigar! Cigars don’t grow on window-sills. They sell them at
ridiculously high prices in the stores. This is probably just a black,
broken twig.

WIFE. But, do look! Ah, now I understand! Our dear neighbours brought it.

MAN. Neighbours! Upon my word, they are angels. And even if the devil
himself had brought these things—bring them here quick, my little wife.
[_The WIFE of MAN sits on his knees and they eat, she breaking the pieces
of bread and putting them in his mouth while he gives her milk from the
bottle_] It looks like cream.

WIFE. No, it’s milk. Chew your bread more slowly or you’ll choke yourself.

MAN. Give me the crust. It is so nicely browned.

WIFE. There, didn’t I tell you you would choke yourself?

MAN. It’s all right; got it down.

WIFE. The milk’s running down my neck and my chin—oh, it tickles!

MAN. Here, let me drink it up. [_He drinks it off her neck and chin_] We
mustn’t waste a drop.

WIFE. What a mischief you are!

MAN. There, everything’s eaten up. That was quick work. Everything that
is good comes soon to an end. This bottle must have a double bottom.
To look at it you would think it was deeper. What cheats these bottle
makers are! [_He lights the cigar, and assumes an attitude of supreme
contentment. She ties the rose-coloured ribbon in her hair, using the
black window for a mirror_] This seems to be an expensive cigar. It is
very fragrant and strong. I am always going to smoke that kind.

WIFE. You’re not looking at me.

MAN. Yes, I am. I see everything. I see the ribbon, and I see that you
want me to kiss your throat.

WIFE. I won’t let you, you silly man. You can smoke your cigar if you
like, but as for my throat——

MAN. What, isn’t it mine? The deuce! That is a violation of property
rights. [_She runs away. He catches her and kisses her_] There, the right
is restored, and now, my little Wife, dance for me. Just imagine that
this is a magnificent, luxurious, astounding, miraculously beautiful
palace.

WIFE. I’ve imagined it.

MAN. Now imagine that you are the queen of the ball.

WIFE. It’s done.

MAN. And that marquises and counts and lord mayors are asking you to
dance with them, but you decline them all and select the—what do you call
him—the fellow in tights? Oh, yes, the prince. Why! What’s the matter?

WIFE. I don’t like princes.

MAN. Oh, that’s it! Well, what sort do you like?

WIFE. I like talented artists.

MAN. Good! Here’s your artist. Oh, heavens! Look at you there flirting
with empty space! Oh, woman!

WIFE. But I was just imagining.

MAN. Oh, all right. Now imagine a wonderful orchestra. See, here’s a big
Turkish drum—boom, boom, boom!

    [_He pounds his fist on the table in imitation of a drum._

WIFE. My dear, it is only in a circus that they call the crowd together
with a drum; in a palace——

MAN. Oh, the deuce! Stop the picture. Now imagine again. Listen! The
singing violins are pouring forth their melody, and here sounds the
tender voice of a flute. Listen! The fat bass viol is booming like a
beetle— [_MAN, wearing the oak wreath, sits and strikes up the tune of
the dance, beating time with the palms of his hands. The tune is the same
as that which is played in the following act, at the ball of MAN. The
WIFE dances gracefully_] Ah, my little gazelle!

WIFE. I am the queen of the ball.

    _The song and dance become more and more lively. Presently MAN
    gets up, begins to dance where he stands, and finally seizes
    his WIFE and dances with her, the oak wreath slipping to one
    side._

    _The BEING IN GREY watches them with indifference, holding in
    his stony hand the brightly blazing candle._

_Curtain._




ACT III

A BALL AT THE HOUSE OF MAN


    _A ball is going on in the great hall of the spacious house
    of MAN. The hall is a large, high, rectangular room with
    perfectly smooth white walls and ceiling and a light-coloured
    floor. There is a certain lack of harmony in the parts, the
    doors, for example, being disproportionately small as compared
    with the windows. In consequence of this the hall produces a
    strange and somewhat irritating impression, an impression of
    something inharmonious, something incomprehensible, something
    non-essential and intrusive. The room is pervaded by a chilly
    whiteness, its monotony being broken only by a row of windows
    along the rear wall. These are very high, reaching almost to
    the ceiling, and are close together. Through them the night
    shows dark and gloomy. Not a single gleam of light, not one
    bright spot, is visible in the empty caverns enclosed by
    the frames. The wealth of MAN is shown by the abundance of
    gilding. There are gilded chairs and very broad gilded frames
    on the pictures. These are the only furnishings and the only
    decoration of the immense room. The hall is illuminated by
    three chandeliers in circular form, with electric lights set at
    wide intervals around them. Near the ceiling the room is very
    bright, but lower down the light is noticeably less, so that
    the walls appear greyish._

    _The ball at the house of MAN is at its height. An orchestra
    of three is playing. The musicians bear a striking resemblance
    to their instruments. Thus, the one with a fiddle resembles a
    fiddle, having a very thin neck and a small head with a topknot
    drooping to one side. His body is somewhat bent. Over his
    shoulder, underneath the fiddle, a handkerchief is carefully
    spread. The flutist resembles a flute. He is very long and
    very thin, with a long-drawn-out face and long-stretched-out
    thin legs. The one with the bass viol resembles a bass viol.
    He is short, has drooping shoulders, is very broad below the
    waist, and wears broad pantaloons. They play with an infinite
    painstaking which is very conspicuous. They keep time by
    shaking their heads and swaying their bodies. The tune during
    the entire ball is always the same. It is a rather brief polka
    of two musical phrases, with dancing notes, cheerful but very
    empty. The instruments are slightly out of tune with each other
    and consequently there is between them, as well as between the
    successive notes, a strange incoherence and, as it were, empty
    spaces._

    [Music]

    _The young girls and young men, all of them very handsome,
    well-formed, and elegant, are dancing a dreamy dance._

    _In contrast to the loud and jerky sounds of the music, their
    dancing is very smooth, silent, and light. During the first
    musical phrase they circle about; during the second one they
    separate and reunite gracefully and a trifle artificially._

    _Along the wall on the gilded chairs sit the GUESTS in rigid,
    formal attitudes. They move stiffly, scarcely turning their
    heads. They also speak stiffly—there is no whispering nor
    smiling—without looking at each other, and utter, jerkily and
    abruptly, only such words as are given in the text. Their
    hands seem to be broken at the wrist and hang in an attitude
    of stupid pride. In spite of the extreme and sharply marked
    differences in their faces, they all wear a similar expression
    of self-satisfaction, arrogance, and sodden reverence for the
    wealth of MAN._

    _The girls who are dancing wear white gowns; the men are
    dressed in black. The GUESTS wear black, white, and bright
    yellow._

    _In the corner nearest the spectators, which is darker than the
    other corners, the BEING IN GREY, called HE, stands motionless.
    The candle in his hand is already reduced by two thirds and
    burns with a vivid yellow flame, throwing yellow patches of
    light on his stony face and chin._

CONVERSATION OF THE GUESTS

I must observe that it is a very great honour to be a guest at the ball
of Man.

You might add that this honour is bestowed upon very few. The whole city
tried to get invitations, but very few received them. My husband, my
children, and I are all very proud of the honour which highly respected
Man has bestowed upon us.

I even feel a sort of pity for those who couldn’t come. All night they
will lie awake from envy and to-morrow they will slander us and tell how
people are bored at the balls of Man.

They have never seen this brilliancy.

You might add, this amazing wealth and luxury.

Precisely what I mean: this charming, care-free joy. If this is not joy,
then I should like to know where joy is.

Enough. You cannot convince people who are tortured by envy. They will
tell us that we did not sit on gilded chairs—that there were no gilded
chairs at all!

And they will say that they were just ordinary, cheap chairs bought at a
second-hand store.

And that there was no electric light but simply tallow candles.

Why not say candle-ends?

Or wretched night-lamps. Oh, slander! slander!

And they will barefacedly deny that there are gilded cornices in the
house of Man.

And that the pictures have broad, gilded frames. It seems to me I can
hear the gold jingling.

You see it glitter; that is sufficient, I should say.

I have rarely had opportunity to enjoy such music as one hears at the
balls of Man,—this divine harmony which wafts the soul to higher spheres.

Music ought to be good when it costs so much. You should not forget that
this is the best orchestra in the city and that it plays on the most
élite occasions.

This music runs in your head for a long time. It certainly takes the ear
captive. My children on returning from the balls of Man hum the tune for
a long time.

I sometimes think I hear it on the street. I look around, but there are
no musicians and no music.

And I hear it in my dreams.

I must say that I am particularly pleased with the painstaking manner
in which the musicians play. They understand how much money they have
received for their music, and they wish to give some return for it. That
is perfectly proper.

They work as hard as if they had themselves entered into their
instruments.

Rather say their instruments have entered into them.

How costly!

How gorgeous!

How brilliant!

How costly!

    _For some time, in different parts of the room, the two
    expressions_, “How costly!” “How gorgeous!” _are repeated
    abruptly with a sound resembling a bark._

Aside from this hall Man has fifteen magnificent rooms, and I have seen
them all. The dining-room has a fireplace so huge that whole logs can be
burned in it. There are magnificent reception-rooms and a boudoir. The
sleeping chambers are roomy, and above the heads of the beds—just think
of it—are baldachins!

Yes, isn’t it amazing! Baldachins!

Do you hear? Baldachins!

Allow me to continue. For his little son there is a beautiful, bright
room finished in wood of a golden yellow colour. The sun seems always to
shine in it.

Oh, such a charming boy! He has curls like the sun’s rays.

Quite true. When you look at him you involuntarily think: What, has the
sun risen?

When you look at his eyes you think: Why, autumn is over and the blue sky
has come again!

Man loves his son passionately. For horseback riding he has bought him a
pony, a cunning, snow-white pony. My children——

Allow me to continue, I beg of you. Have I spoken yet of the bath?

No, no!

Ah, the bath!

Yes, the bath!

Yes, hot water all the time. Then, farther on, is the library of Man
himself, and there you see nothing but books, books, books! They say he
is very wise, and you could infer that from his books.

I once saw the garden. Have you seen it?

No, I have not had that pleasure.

Well, I saw the garden, and I must say that it charmed me. Just picture
to yourself lawns of emerald, incredibly smooth, and down the middle two
paths sprinkled with fine, red sand. Then flowers, even palms!

Even palms?

Yes, even palms. And all the trees are clipped, too, some of them like
pyramids, others like green columns. And there is a fountain, and
shining, coloured globes, and in the midst of the green grass stand
little plaster-of-paris gnomes and mountain goats.

How costly!

How gorgeous!

    _For some time they repeat abruptly_: “How costly!” “How
    gorgeous!”

Man did me the honour of showing me his stables and his carriage houses,
and I expressed my unqualified approval of his horses and carriages. In
particular, the automobile made a peculiarly deep impression on me.

And—think of it!—he has as many as seven servants! A man and woman cook,
two chambermaids, gardeners, the——

You left out the coachman.

Oh, yes, of course, the coachman.

And they themselves do nothing. They are so important.

Everybody agrees that it is a great honour to be a guest of Man.

But don’t you find this music somewhat monotonous?

Dear me, no! I don’t find it so, and I am surprised that you do. Don’t
you see what kind of musicians these are?

As for me, I should like to hear this music all my life long. There is
something in it which thrills me.

And me.

And me.

Under its spell how delightful it is to give oneself up to sweet dreams
of bliss——

And to be wafted away in them to the interstellar spheres.

How fine!

How costly!

How gorgeous! [_They repeat these exclamations._

I see a commotion at the doors yonder. Man will now pass through the hall
with his Wife.

The musicians are becoming completely exhausted.

There they are!

They’re coming! Look, they’re coming!

    _In the low, double door at the right appear MAN, his WIFE, his
    FRIENDS, and his ENEMIES. They cross the hall diagonally, going
    toward the door at the left. The dancers, continuing to dance,
    divide their ranks and make way for them. The musicians play
    with desperate loudness and discordancy._

    _MAN has grown much older. In his long hair and his beard
    are traces of grey, but his face is manly and handsome, and
    he walks with a calm dignity and a certain reserve. He looks
    straight ahead, apparently not observing those about him. His
    WIFE, leaning on his arm, is still beautiful, though she also
    has grown older. She, too, apparently does not see what is
    going on about her, and with a somewhat strange, almost fixed,
    gaze looks straight before her. Both are richly dressed._

    _Immediately behind MAN walk his FRIENDS. They all resemble
    one another, having noble faces, open, high foreheads, and
    honest eyes. As they walk proudly forward with chests thrown
    out and with confident, firm tread, they look from side to side
    condescendingly and with a slightly scornful air. All have
    white roses in their buttonholes._

    _A little way behind them come the ENEMIES of MAN. They also
    resemble one another closely. All have depraved faces, low
    foreheads, and long, monkey-like arms. They walk restlessly,
    jostling each other, crouching, hiding behind each other, and
    casting sidewise under their brows keen, sneaking, envious
    glances. In their buttonholes are yellow roses._

    _In this manner they pass slowly, without speaking, across
    the hall. The sound of the footsteps, the music, and the
    exclamations of the guests produce a confused and markedly
    inharmonious noise._

THE GUESTS

There they are! There they are! What an honour!

How handsome he is!

What a manly face!

Look! Look!

He doesn’t even glance at us.

He doesn’t see us.

We are his guests.

What an honour! What an honour!

And she, look, look!

How beautiful she is!

How proud!

Do just look at her diamonds!

Diamonds! Diamonds!

Pearls! Pearls!

Rubies!

How gorgeous! What an honour!

Honour! Honour! Honour!

    [_They repeat the exclamations._

And there come the Friends of Man.

Look, look! There are the Friends of Man.

What noble faces!

What a proud walk!

They bask in his fame.

How they love him!

How faithful they are to him!

What an honour to be a Friend of Man!

They look upon everything as if it were their own.

They feel at home here.

What an honour!

Honour! Honour! Honour!

    [_They repeat the exclamations._

And there are the Enemies of Man!

Look, look! The Enemies of Man!

They walk like whipped dogs.

Man has humbled them.

He has muzzled them.

See how they wag their tails.

How they slink along!

They jostle each other.

Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

    [_They laugh._

What villainous faces!

What greedy glances!

Cowards!

Envious!

They are afraid to look at us.

They feel that we are at home here.

We must scare them still more.

Man will be grateful to us.

Scare them, scare them!

Boo! Boo!

    _They shout at the ENEMIES of MAN, intermingling the cry_ “Boo!
    Boo!” _with their laughter. The ENEMIES crowd together and cast
    timid but sharp glances from side to side._

They are going out! They are going out!

What an honour!

They are going out!

Boo! Boo! Ha! Ha! Ha!

They’re gone! They’re gone! They’re gone!

    _The procession disappears through the door at the left. A
    period of silence follows. The music is not so loud, and the
    dancers gradually fill the room._

Where did they go?

I think they went to the dining-room. They are serving dinner there.

Probably they will soon invite us, too. Don’t you see some one looking
for us?

Indeed, it’s high time. If one dines too late, one sleeps badly.

For my part, I dine very early.

A late dinner sits heavy on the stomach.

The music is still playing.

And they are still dancing. I am surprised that they can hold out so long.

How gorgeous!

How sumptuous!

Do you know for how many persons the table is laid?

I had no chance to count. The butler came in and I took occasion to
withdraw.

It cannot be that they have forgotten us.

Man, you see, is so proud, and we are so petty.

Your remark is quite uncalled for. My husband says that we show him
honour by attending. We are quite wealthy ourselves.

If you take into account the reputation of his Wife——

Don’t you see some one looking for us? Perhaps they are looking for us in
the other rooms.

How rich——

In my opinion one may quite easily become rich by handling other people’s
money carelessly.

Silence! Only his Enemies say that——

Well, there are perfectly honourable people among them. I am bound to say
that my husband——

Dear me! How late it is!

Apparently there is some misunderstanding. I cannot believe that they
have simply forgotten us.

Evidently you understand life and human nature very little, if you think
that.

I am surprised. We ourselves are quite wealthy——

I think I heard some one calling us.

You only imagined it. No one called us, and, to speak frankly, I don’t
understand why we have come to a house with such a reputation. One should
be careful in the selection of one’s associates.

    _A SERVANT IN LIVERY appears at the door._

SERVANT. Man and his Wife invite their honoured guests to come to table.

    _The GUESTS rise hastily._

What a gorgeous livery!

He has invited us!

I said there was some misunderstanding.

Man is so kind. Probably they are themselves not yet seated.

I asked whether there was not some one looking for us.

What a livery!

They say the dinner is magnificent.

Nothing can be bad in the house of Man.

What music! What an honour to be at the ball of Man!

Let those envy us who——

How gorgeous!

How sumptuous!

What an honour!

What an honour!

    _Repeating these words they withdraw one after another, and
    the hall becomes empty. The dancers, couple after couple, stop
    dancing, and without speaking walk out after the other guests.
    For some little time afterward one couple circle about, but
    they, too, soon follow the others. The musicians, however,
    continue to play with the same desperate painstaking._

    _A lackey extinguishes the chandeliers, leaving only one light
    in the farthest chandelier, and goes out. In the dimness that
    ensues, the figures of the musicians can be seen as vague,
    wavering forms, their bodies rocking with their instruments.
    The BEING IN GREY stands out sharply. The flame of the candle
    flickers and illuminates his stony face and chin with a bright,
    yellowish light._

    _Without raising his head, he turns and, illuminated by the
    flame of the candle, walks with calm and silent footsteps
    across the hall to the door through which MAN passed, and
    disappears through it._

_Curtain._




ACT IV

MISFORTUNE


    _A large, rectangular room of a gloomy aspect. The walls,
    ceiling, and floor are smooth and dark. In the rear wall are
    two tall, eight-paned, curtainless windows, between which is a
    low door. Two similar windows are in the right wall. Night is
    looking in at the windows, and when the door is open the same
    deep blackness peers quickly into the room. In general, however
    much light there may be in the rooms of MAN, the large, dark,
    windows seem to devour it._

    _The left wall is pierced by a single low door leading into
    the inner apartments. Against this wall stands a broad divan
    covered with dark cloth. At the window on the right is the
    work-table of MAN, very plain and cheap. On it is a dimly
    burning lamp with a dark shade, under which a design spread
    out on the table makes a yellow square. On the table also are
    a child’s toys—a little soldier cap, a wooden horse without a
    tail, and a red, long-nosed clown with bells. Against the wall
    between the windows is a shabby old bookcase, entirely empty.
    On the shelves can be seen streaks of dust, showing that the
    books have been recently removed. There is but one chair._

    _In a corner darker than the other corners stands the BEING IN
    GREY, called HE. The candle in his hand is no higher than it is
    broad. It is only a stub and is beginning to flatten out as it
    melts. It burns with a reddish, flickering light and casts red
    spots upon the BEING’S stony face and chin._

    _MAN’S only servant, an OLD WOMAN, is seated in the chair.
    She speaks in a monotonous voice, addressing an imaginary
    companion_:

MAN is poor again. He had many valuable things—horses, and carriages, and
even an automobile—but everything is gone now, and of all his servants
I alone am left. In this room and in two others there are still some
fine things, like the divan there and the bookcase, but in the remaining
twelve rooms there is nothing. They stand empty and dark. Day and night
the rats run about in them and fight and shriek. People are afraid of the
rats, but I am not. It’s all the same to me.

For a long time an iron plate has been hanging at the carriage entrance
with a notice that the house is for sale, but nobody buys. The plate is
rusty and the letters on it are worn away by the rains, but no one comes
and no one buys. No one has use for the old house. But perhaps some one
will buy some day. Then we shall go and hunt for another place, and the
new place will seem very strange. My mistress will begin to weep, and
perhaps even the old gentleman will weep. But not I. It’s all the same to
me.

You wonder where the wealth has gone? I don’t know. Perhaps you are
surprised at that, but, you see, all my life I have worked in private
families and I frequently have seen their money disappear quietly through
some crevice or other. So it was with this family. At first there was
much; then there was less; then nothing at all. Customers used to come
and give orders, and then they stopped coming. Once I asked the lady why
this was so, and she answered: “They cease to like what they used to
like. They cease to love what they used to love.” I asked: “How can it be
that people cease to like a thing when once they have come to like it?”
She did not answer and began to cry. But I didn’t. It’s all the same to
me. It’s all the same to me.

As long as they pay me, I will live with them. If they stop paying, I
will go somewhere else and live with others. I have cooked for them; when
I leave, I shall cook for others; and after a while, I’ll stop entirely;
for I shall be old and my eyesight poor. Then they will drive me away and
say: “Go where you like. We will hire some one else.” But what of that?
I’ll go. It’s all the same to me.

People are surprised at me. They say it is frightful to live here; that
it is frightful to sit evenings with only the wind whistling in the
chimney and the rats shrieking and gnawing.

I don’t know; perhaps it is frightful, only I don’t think about it. Why
should I? They sit quietly and look at each other and listen to the wind,
and I sit by myself alone in the kitchen and also listen to the wind.
Isn’t it the same wind that whistles in our ears? Young people used to
come and visit their son, and then they would all laugh and sing and go
into the empty rooms and chase away the rats. But no one comes to me
and I sit alone, all alone. There is no one to talk with, so I talk to
myself. It’s all the same to me.

And so they are in straits. Three days ago another misfortune came.
The young gentleman went out for a walk. He put his hat on one side of
his head and smoothed back his hair, as young men do. But a wicked man
threw a stone at him from behind a corner and cracked his skull like a
nut. They brought him home and laid him down, and he is lying there now,
dying—or perhaps he will live. Who knows? The master and the mistress
wept, and then they took all the books and loaded them on a dray and sold
them; and now they have hired a nurse with the money and bought medicine.
They even bought some grapes. So the books were of some use after all.
However, he can’t eat the grapes. He can’t even look at them. So they
lie there by him on a plate—just lie there.

    _DOCTOR enters by the outside door. He is gloomy and much
    worried._

DOCTOR. Am I in the right house? Do you know, old lady? I am the doctor.
I make many calls and often I go to the wrong place. They call me here,
they call me there; but all the houses look alike and the people are
tiresome in all of them. Is this the right place?

OLD WOMAN. I don’t know.

DOCTOR. Just let me look in my note-book. Is there a child here with sore
throat—choking?

OLD WOMAN. No.

DOCTOR. Young man choking on a bone?

OLD WOMAN. No.

DOCTOR. Man here who suddenly went crazy from poverty and killed his wife
and two children with an axe? There ought to be four in all.

OLD WOMAN. No.

DOCTOR. Young girl whose heart has stopped beating? Don’t lie to me, old
woman. I think she is here.

OLD WOMAN. No.

DOCTOR. No? I believe you. You seem to speak sincerely. Have you a young
man whose skull was broken with a stone and who is dying?

OLD WOMAN. Yes. Go through that door at the left into the next room; but
don’t go farther, or the rats will eat you.

DOCTOR. Very well. They’re always ringing my door-bell, day and night.
See, it’s night now. The street lights are all put out, but I am still on
the go. I often make mistakes, old woman.

    _He goes out through the door which leads to the inner part of
    the house._

OLD WOMAN. One doctor attended him but didn’t cure him, and now there is
another, and probably he won’t cure him, either. But what’s the odds?
Their son will die and we shall be left alone in the house. I shall sit
in the kitchen and talk to myself, and they will sit in this room in
silence, thinking, and there will be one more room for the rats to run
and fight in. Let them run and fight. It’s all the same to me. It’s all
the same to me.

You ask me why the wicked man hit the young master? I don’t know. How
should I know why people kill one another? One threw a stone from behind
a corner and ran away, and the other fell down, and now he is dying.
That’s all I know. They say that our young master was kind and brave and
always took the part of the wretched. I don’t know. It’s all the same to
me. Good or bad, young or old, alive or dead, it’s all the same to me.
It’s all the same to me.

As long as they pay me, I’ll stay. If they stop paying, I’ll go somewhere
else and cook for others; and after a while I’ll stop entirely; for I
shall be old, and my eyesight poor, and I shan’t be able to tell salt
from sugar. Then they will drive me away, and say: “Go where you like. We
will hire some one else.” But what of that? I’ll go. It’s all the same to
me. Here or there or nowhere—it’s all the same to me, all the same to me.

    _Enter DOCTOR, MAN, and his WIFE. MAN and his WIFE have
    perceptibly aged, and are entirely grey. MAN’S long hair,
    rising high above his head, and his large beard make his head
    resemble that of a lion. Though he walks slightly bent, he
    holds his head erect and looks out sternly and resolutely from
    beneath his grey brows. When he looks at anything near, he puts
    on large spectacles with silver rims._

DOCTOR. Your son has fallen into a sound sleep. Don’t wake him up.
Perhaps the sleep will do him good. You go to sleep, too. If a man has
time to sleep, he ought to sleep, and not to walk about and talk.

WIFE. Thank you, doctor. You have so reassured us. Will you not come
again to-morrow?

DOCTOR. I will come to-morrow and the day after to-morrow. You go to
sleep, too, old woman. It’s already night and time for every one to
sleep. Do I go through this door? I frequently make mistakes.

    _He goes out. The OLD WOMAN also goes out. MAN and his WIFE
    remain._

MAN. See, Wife, here is a design I began before our son was hurt. When I
had drawn this line I stopped and said to myself: “After I have rested a
little I will go to work again.” How simple a line it is; how quiet and
yet how frightful! Perhaps it is the last that I shall draw while our son
is alive. How calm, how simple it is, and yet how full of foreboding!

WIFE. Don’t worry, my dear. Dismiss these apprehensions. I believe that
the doctor told the truth and that our son will recover.

MAN. But are you not worried? Look at yourself in the mirror. You are as
white as your hair, my dear companion.

WIFE. Of course I am a little anxious; still I am sure there is no danger.

MAN. My poor armour-bearer! Steadfast guardian of my blunted sword! Now,
as always, you beguile and cheer me by your sincerity and devotion. Your
old knight is now broken and his withered hand cannot long hold his
weapon. But what is this? Our son’s toys! Who put them here?

WIFE. My dear, you forget. You put them here yourself some time ago. You
said then that you could work better with these simple child’s toys lying
before you.

MAN. Oh, yes; I had forgotten. But now they are like instruments of
torture and execution to a man condemned to death. When a child dies, his
toys become a curse to the living. Oh, Wife, Wife! The very sight of them
is terrible!

WIFE. We bought them when we were poor. It saddens me to look at them.
Poor, dear toys!

MAN. I cannot bear it. I must take them in my hands. See, here is the
horse with the broken tail. “Gid-ap, gid-ap, horsie! Where are you
galloping?” “Far, papa, far away into the fields and the green woods.”
“Take me with you, horsie.” “Gid-ap, gid-ap! Climb on, dear papa—” And
here’s the soldier’s cap made of pasteboard. Poor little cap, which I
myself tried on laughingly when I bought it in the shop: “Who are you?”
“I am a knight, papa. I am the strongest, bravest knight that ever was.”
“Where are you going, my little knight?” “I am going to kill the dragon,
dear papa. I am going to free the captives, papa.” “Ride on, ride on, my
little knight!” [_The WIFE of MAN weeps_] And see, here is our clown,
just as he always looked, with his dear, stupid grin. He is as tattered
as if he had been through a hundred fights, but he is still laughing and
his nose is as red as ever. Come, ring your bells, my friend, as you used
to ring them. You can’t? Only one bell left, you say? Well, then, I’ll
throw you on the floor. [_He throws the toy down._

WIFE. What are you doing? Remember how often our child has kissed his
funny little face.

MAN. Yes, I was wrong. Forgive me, my dear, and you, little toy, forgive
me, too. [_He picks up the toy, bending his knees with difficulty_] Still
smiling! Come, I will lay you a little farther away. Don’t be angry; I
cannot look at your smile just now. Go and smile somewhere else.

WIFE. Your words wring my heart. Believe me, our son will recover. Would
it be just for the young to die before the old?

MAN. Where have you ever seen justice in this world, Wife?

WIFE. My beloved, I beg you, kneel with me in prayer to God.

MAN. It is hard for my old knees to bend.

WIFE. Bend them—it is your duty.

MAN. God will not hear me, for never yet have I troubled his ear either
with praise or with petition. Do you pray; you are the mother.

WIFE. No, you must pray; you are the father. If a father doesn’t pray
for his son, who will? To whose hands will you commit him? Could I speak
alone as we two can speak together?

MAN. Let it be as you say. Perhaps, if I bend my aged knees, eternal
justice will answer.

    _They both fall on their knees, their faces turned toward the
    corner where the UNKNOWN stands motionless, and their hands
    folded on their breasts in attitude of prayer._

PRAYER OF THE MOTHER

O God, I beseech you, let my son live. That is all I know, that is all I
can say—only this one thing: “God, let my son live.” I cannot frame other
words. All about me is dark. All is falling away. I understand nothing,
and my soul is so filled with horror, O Lord, that I can say only one
thing. O God, let my son live, let my son live! Let him live! Forgive me
for uttering so poor a prayer, but I cannot do otherwise, O Lord; you
know I cannot. Look upon me, only look upon me. Do you see, do you see
how my head trembles? Do you see how my hands shake? And what are my
hands, O Lord? Have mercy upon him! He is so young. He has a birthmark on
his right arm. Let him live, if only a little while, only a little while!
He is only a child, and so innocent. He still loves sweets, and I bought
him some grapes. Have mercy, have mercy!

    _She weeps silently, covering her face with her hands. Without
    looking at her MAN speaks._

PRAYER OF THE FATHER

See, I am praying to you. I have bent my aged knees. I have fallen in the
dust before you. See, I kiss the earth. Perhaps I have sometimes offended
you. In that case, pardon me, pardon me. It is true that I have been
presumptuous and overbold, that I have demanded instead of beseeching,
and that I have often reproached you for your acts. Pardon me. If you
desire, if such is your will, punish me. Only spare my son; spare him, I
pray you. I do not beg for mercy or for pity; no, I beg only for justice.
You are old and I, too, as you see, am old. You will understand my prayer
the better for that. Wicked people tried to kill him, people who by their
evil deeds insult you and pollute the earth—malicious, brutal, villainous
people, who throw stones from behind corners—from behind corners, the
villains! Let not this wicked thing be done. Stanch his blood. Bring
back his life, bring back life to my fine boy. You have taken everything
from me, but have I ever importuned you? Have I said, Restore my wealth,
restore my friends, restore my genius? No, never. I never asked you even
for my genius, and you know what genius means—how it is more to one than
life itself. It is the will of fate, I thought, and I bore everything,
I bore everything, I bore it proudly. But now, on my knees in the dust,
kissing the earth, I beg of you, bring back life to my son. I kiss the
earth.

    _They rise. The BEING called HE listens with indifference to
    the prayer of the father and the mother._

WIFE. I fear that your prayer, my dear, was not sufficiently humble.
There seemed to be a note of pride in it.

MAN. No, no, Wife. I said what was right, just as a man should speak.
Should He love cringing flatterers more than bold, proud people who speak
the truth? No, Wife, you don’t understand. Now I have faith, now I am
calm, even cheerful. I feel that I am still of some service to my son,
and that heartens me. See whether he is sleeping. He ought to be sleeping
soundly.

    _The WIFE goes out. MAN casts a friendly glance into the corner
    where the BEING IN GREY stands. He takes up the toy clown,
    plays with it, and gently kisses its long, red nose. At this
    moment the WIFE comes in and MAN, somewhat embarrassed, says_:
    “I offended this poor fool, but now I have begged pardon for
    everything. Well, how is our dear son?”

WIFE. He is very pale.

MAN. That’s nothing. It will pass. He has lost a great deal of blood.

WIFE. His pale, shaved head is so pitiful to see. He had such beautiful
golden curls.

MAN. They cut them off in order to wash the wound. But never mind, Wife,
never mind. They will grow out still finer. Did you gather them up? They
must be gathered up and preserved. His precious blood is on them, Wife.

WIFE. Yes, I have laid them away in the jewel box, all that is left of
our wealth.

MAN. Do not lament the loss of our wealth. Wait until our son begins to
work. He will win back all that we have lost. Now I am cheerful, my dear,
I have faith in our future. Do you remember our poor rose-tinted room?
The good neighbours strewed oak leaves about it, and you made a wreath
for my head and said I was a genius.

WIFE. And I say it even now, my dear. If other people have ceased to
value you, I have not.

MAN. No, my dear little Wife, you are wrong. The creations of genius live
longer than this wretched old garment that we call our body, but even
during my lifetime my works are——

WIFE. No, they are not dead and will never die. Recall the house on the
corner which you built ten years ago. Every evening at sunset you go to
look at it. Is there in the whole city a building more beautiful, more
meaningful?

MAN. True. I so built it that the last rays of the setting sun might fall
upon it and set its windows ablaze. After the whole city is in darkness,
my building is still bidding farewell to the sun. That was work well
done, and perhaps it will outlive me, if only a little. Don’t you think
so?

WIFE. Of course it will, my dear.

MAN. One thing grieves me, Wife. Why am I so soon forgotten? I might have
been remembered a little longer, my dear, a little longer.

WIFE. People forget what they once knew. They cease to love what they
once loved.

MAN. They might have remembered me somewhat longer, somewhat longer.

WIFE. I saw a young artist near the house. He was studying the building
carefully and was making a sketch of it in his note-book.

MAN. Why did you not tell me of that, my dear? That is significant,
very significant. It means that my thoughts will pass on to others, and
even though I am forgotten, yet my thoughts will live on. That is very
important, extremely important.

WIFE. They have certainly not forgotten you, my dear. Think of the young
man who bowed to you so respectfully on the street.

MAN. True, Wife. A fine young man, very. He had a glorious young face. It
is well that you remind me of this. It has filled my soul with sunshine.
But I feel sleepy. I am probably tired. Yes; and I am old. My grey little
Wife, do you see that I am old?

WIFE. You are still as handsome as ever.

MAN. And my eyes shine?

WIFE. Yes, your eyes shine.

MAN. And my hair is black as pitch?

WIFE. It is as white as snow, which is even more handsome.

MAN. And I have no wrinkles?

WIFE. There are a few little wrinkles, but——

MAN. Of course. I know that I am a handsome fellow. To-morrow I will buy
a uniform and enter the light brigade. Won’t that be fine?

WIFE. [_Smiling_] Now you are joking as you used. Well, lie down, my
dear, and take a short nap and I will go to our son. Rest quietly; I will
not leave him until he wakes, and then I will call you. You don’t like to
kiss my wrinkled old hand, do you? [_MAN kisses it._

MAN. Nonsense! You are the most beautiful woman in the world.

WIFE. But the wrinkles?

MAN. Wrinkles? I see a dear, kind, good, intelligent face; nothing more.
Don’t be angry with me for my harshness. Go to our son. Guard him. Sit
by him like a quiet shadow of tenderness and comfort. And if he grows
restless in his sleep, sing him a little song as of old. And set the
grapes nearer so that he can reach them.

    _The WIFE goes out. MAN lies down on the lounge with his head
    toward the corner where the BEING IN GREY stands motionless.
    MAN’S position is such that the hand of the BEING almost
    touches his grey, dishevelled hair. He quickly falls asleep._

THE BEING IN GREY. Man, flattered by his hopes, has fallen into a deep
and grateful sleep. His breathing is as quiet as a child’s, and his aged
heart, resting from its sufferings, beats calmly and evenly. He does not
know that in a few moments his son will die. And, as he sleeps, in his
mysterious fancies an impossible happiness rises before him.

He dreams that he is riding with his son in a white boat over a
beautiful, smooth river. He dreams that it is a beautiful day and that he
sees the blue sky and the transparent, crystal water. He hears the reeds
rustle as they part before the boat. He is filled with joy and he fancies
that he is blessed. All his 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 sees the blue sky and hears the
reeds rustling as they part.

He does not know that his son is already dying. He does not hear how in
a last wild hope, with childish faith in the power of older persons, his
son calls him, without words, with the cry of his heart, “Papa, papa, I
am dying! I am slipping away! Hold me!” Man’s sleep is deep and joyous,
and in his mysterious and deceiving visions an impossible happiness rises
before him.

Awake, Man! Your son is dead!

MAN. [_Terrified, raises his head and gets up_] Ah! Did some one call me?

    _At the same moment the weeping of many women is heard in
    the next room. With high-pitched voices they are uttering
    long-drawn-out lamentation over the dead. Enter the WIFE, pale
    as death._

MAN. Is our son dead?

WIFE. Yes, he is dead.

MAN. Did he call me?

WIFE. No, he did not wake. He called no one. He is dead, my son, my
precious child!

    _She falls on her knees before MAN and sobs, throwing her arms
    about his knees. MAN places his hand upon her head, and, in a
    voice choked with sobs but threatening, he speaks, his face
    toward the corner where the BEING IN GREY stands, indifferent._

MAN. You have offended a woman, villain! You have killed our boy. [_The
WIFE sobs. MAN with trembling hand quietly smooths her hair_] Don’t
weep, my dear, don’t weep. He will laugh at our tears, as he laughed at
our prayers. But you (I know not who you are, God, the Devil, Fate, or
Life)—I curse you.

    _He speaks the following with a loud, strong voice, with
    one hand held over his wife, as if to defend her, the other
    threateningly extended toward the UNKNOWN._

THE CURSE OF MAN

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 for ever! Through my curse I rise victorious
above you. What more can you do to me? Hurl me upon the ground, yes, hurl
me down! I shall only laugh and cry out, “Be accursed!” Fetter my lips
with the clamps of death, and my last thought shall be a cry into your
ass’s ears, “Be accursed, be accursed!” Seize upon my corpse, gnaw it
like a dog, worry it in the darkness,—I am not within it. I have vanished
and, vanishing, I repeat the curse, “Be accursed, be accursed!” Over the
head of the woman whom you have offended, over the body of the boy whom
you have killed, I hurl upon you the curse of Man!

    _He stands in silence with his hand raised in a threatening
    attitude. The BEING IN GREY listens with indifference to the
    curse, and the flame of the candle flutters as if blown by the
    wind. For some time the two stand facing each other in a tense
    silence—MAN and the BEING IN GREY. The crying in the next room
    becomes louder and more prolonged and gradually passes into a
    rhythmical wailing._

_Curtain._




ACT V

THE DEATH OF MAN


    _A vague, wavering, flickering, dim light through which one can
    at first make out nothing. When the eye becomes accustomed to
    the gloom, the following scene is disclosed_:

    _A long, wide, basement room with a very low ceiling and
    without windows. A flight of stairs leads from the room to the
    entrance, somewhere above. The walls are smooth, gloomy, and
    dirty, like the coarse, spotted hide of some huge beast. The
    rear wall, as far as to the steps, is occupied by a large,
    flat buffet with a mirror. The buffet is filled with straight
    rows of bottles containing liquids of various colours. Behind
    a low counter sits the BARTENDER, perfectly motionless, with
    his hands folded across his stomach. He has a white face with
    red nose and cheeks, a bald head, and a large, sandy beard,
    and wears an expression of complete calm and indifference. He
    remains the same through the entire scene, not once moving
    from his place or changing his attitude. At small tables sit
    the DRUNKARDS, on wooden stools. The number of the people is
    seemingly increased by their shadows, which rove along the
    walls and ceiling._

    _The scene presents an endless variety of the disgusting
    and the horrible. The faces resemble masks, the parts of
    which are disproportionately large or small. Some have large
    noses, others are entirely noseless. The eyes roll wildly,
    almost bursting from their sockets, or are nearly closed so
    that they are reduced to scarcely visible slits and points.
    There are prominent Adam’s apples and diminutive chins. All
    have tangled, shaggy, and dirty hair, which in some cases
    half conceals the face. In spite of their variety, all the
    faces have a hideous resemblance, which consists in a sallow,
    grave-like colour and an expression now of frightful laughter
    and now of insane and gloomy horror._

    _The DRUNKARDS are dressed in rags of one colour, which
    expose a sallow, bony hand, or a sharp knee, or a sunken,
    frightful chest. Some are nearly naked. The women are scarcely
    distinguishable from the men and are even uglier. The hands
    and heads of all tremble, and their gait is unsteady, as if
    they were walking on very slippery or boggy or moving surfaces.
    Their voices, too, are alike in that they are wheezing,
    whimpering, and as unsteady as the gait. They utter their words
    with lips which do not obey them and which are, as it were,
    stiffened with cold._

    _In the centre of the group, at a separate table, sits MAN,
    resting his grey, dishevelled head upon his hands. He remains
    throughout in the same position, except for the moment that he
    speaks. He is shabbily dressed._

    _In one corner the BEING IN GREY with the nearly burned-out
    candle stands motionless. The narrow, blue flame flutters,
    now bending to one side and now reaching upward with a sharp
    tongue, throwing livid spots of light on His stony face and
    chin._

CONVERSATION OF THE DRUNKARDS

My God! My God!

Listen! How strangely everything shakes! You cannot fix your eyes on
anything.

Everything trembles as in a fever: people, chairs, and the ceiling.

Everything sways as if it were afloat.

Don’t you hear a noise? I hear a noise as if iron wheels were rumbling or
stones were falling from a cliff—huge stones, falling like rain.

That is the noise in your ears.

That is the noise of the blood. I can feel my blood, thick, black, and
smelling of rum. It rolls heavily along the veins, and when it comes to
the heart everything seems to fall and terror seizes me.

I seem to see lightning flashes.

I see huge, red bonfires and people burning in them. There’s a disgusting
smell of burning flesh! Black shadows whirl about the bonfires, drunken
shadows. Ho, there! Let me have a dance with you!

My God! My God!

I, too, am cheerful. Who will laugh with me? No one wants to. Then I will
laugh alone. [_He laughs alone._

A charming woman is kissing my lips. She smells of musk and her teeth are
like a crocodile’s. She is trying to bite me. Away, you slattern!

I am not a slattern. I am an old, pregnant serpent. For an hour I have
been watching the little serpents issuing from my body and crawling
about. Take care! Don’t crush my little snakes!

Where are you going?

Who’s walking about there? Sit down! The whole house shakes when you walk.

I can’t sit still. It is frightful when I sit still.

It is frightful for me, too. When I sit still I can feel horror running
through my body.

So can I. Let me go!

    _Three or four drunkards wander aimlessly about with unsteady
    steps, stumbling among the tables._

See what it is doing! For two hours it has been trying to jump onto my
knees. It comes within an inch of it. I drive it away, but it comes back.
That’s a queer sort of game.

Black cockroaches are creeping about under my skull, making a crawling
noise.

My brain is falling to pieces. I can feel one grey fragment separate from
the other. My brain is like spoiled cheese—it smells.

It smells like carrion here.

My God! My God!

To-night I will crawl to her on my knees and butcher her. Blood will
flow. It is flowing now—red blood.

Three people are continually following me. They are calling me into a
dark, lonely corner. They want to butcher me there. They are gathered
about the door now.

Who is that walking along the walls and ceiling?

My God! They have come—they’re after me!

Who?

They.

My tongue is numb. What shall I do? My tongue is numb. I will weep. [_He
weeps._

Everything in me is coming out. I shall turn inside out in a moment and
be red.

Listen, listen! Ho, somebody! A monster is coming upon me. It is raising
its hand. Help! Oh!

What’s this? Help! A spider!

Help!

    [_For some time they cry with hoarse voices_: “Help!”

We are all drunkards. Let’s call everybody down here. Up yonder it is
nasty.

No, don’t. When I go out on the street, the street rushes about like a
wild beast and quickly throws me to the ground.

We have all come here from the street. We drink alcohol and it makes us
happy.

It makes us miserable. All day I tremble with horror.

Better this horror than life. Who wants to go back there?

Not I.

Nor I. I’d rather die here. I don’t want to live.

Nobody wants to live.

My God! My God!

Why does Man come here? He drinks little and sits long. We do not need
him.

Let him go home. He has a home.

He has fifteen rooms.

Don’t touch him! He has nowhere else to go.

He has fifteen rooms.

But they are empty, except for the rats. The rats run about in them and
fight.

But his wife?

He has nobody. Probably his wife is dead.

His wife is dead.

His wife is dead.

    _During this conversation and that which follows, the OLD WOMEN
    in strange garments enter noiselessly and without attracting
    attention replace the quietly withdrawing DRUNKARDS. They
    mingle in the conversation, but so gradually that no one
    notices it._

CONVERSATION OF THE DRUNKARDS AND THE OLD WOMEN

OLD WOMAN. He will soon die. He is so feeble he can scarcely walk.

DRUNKARD. He has fifteen rooms.

OLD WOMAN. Listen to his heart. How unevenly and feebly it beats. It will
soon stop.

DRUNKARD. Invite us to your house, Man. You have fifteen rooms.

OLD WOMAN. It will soon stop—the big, old, feeble heart of Man.

DRUNKARD. He is asleep, the drunken fool. It is frightful to sleep, and
yet he sleeps on. He might die in his sleep. Hey, there! Wake him up!

OLD WOMAN. Do you recall how his heart used to beat—fresh and strong?

    _Subdued laughter._

DRUNKARD. Who’s laughing? There are intruders here.

DRUNKARD. Only in your imagination. There is no one here but us—us
drunkards.

DRUNKARD. I will go out on the street and raise a disturbance. I have
been robbed. I am completely naked. I have a green skin.

OLD WOMAN. Good evening.

DRUNKARD. Again the wheels are rumbling. My God! They will crush me. Help!

    _No one answers._

OLD WOMAN. Good evening.

OLD WOMAN. Do you remember how he was born?

OLD WOMAN. I think you were there.

DRUNKARD. It must be I am dying. My God! My God! Who will carry me to
the grave? Who will bury me? I shall lie about like a dog in the street.
People will walk over me. Carriages will ride over me. They will crush
me. My God! My God! [_He weeps._

OLD WOMAN. Allow me to congratulate you, my dear kinsman, on the birth of
your son.

DRUNKARD. I am firmly convinced that there is an error here. A straight
line that presents the form of a closed circle is simply ridiculous.

DRUNKARD. I will prove it to you in a jiffy.

DRUNKARD. You are quite right.

DRUNKARD. My God! My God!

DRUNKARD. Only people who are ignorant of mathematics will admit it. I
won’t admit it. Do you hear? I won’t admit it.

OLD WOMAN. Do you remember the rose-coloured dress and the naked throat?

OLD WOMAN. And the flowers—the lilies-of-the-valley on which the dew had
not yet dried, and the violets, and the green grass?

OLD WOMAN. Don’t touch them, girls! Don’t touch the flowers!

    _Subdued laughter._

DRUNKARD. My God! My God!

    _The DRUNKARDS are all gone. Their places are occupied by the
    OLD WOMEN with strange garments. The light, though very faint,
    becomes steady. The figure of the UNKNOWN comes sharply out as
    does also the grey head of MAN, upon which from above falls a
    feeble light._

CONVERSATION OF THE OLD WOMEN

Good evening.

Good evening. What a glorious night!

Well, we are together again. How are you?

I have a cough.

    _Subdued laughter._

It won’t be long now. He will soon die.

Look at the candle. The flame is blue and narrow and droops toward the
sides. There is no wax left now—only the wick is burning.

It does not want to go out.

When did you ever see a flame that wanted to go out?

Stop quarrelling! Stop quarrelling! Whether it wants to go out or not,
time is passing.

Do you remember his automobile? Once it almost crushed me.

And his fifteen rooms?

I have just been there. I was nearly eaten by the rats, and I caught cold
from the draughts. Now that some one has stolen the windows, the wind
sweeps through the whole house.

Did you lie on the bed where his wife died? How soft it is, isn’t it?

Yes, I went through all the rooms and mused a bit. They have such a dear
nursery. Only it is too bad that the windows are broken there, too, and
the wind rustles amid the dust. The child’s little bed is so dear! The
mice have now built their nests in it and are raising their families.

Such dear little naked micelets.

    _Subdued laughter._

And in the study on the table lie the toys—the horse without a tail, the
soldier cap, and the red-nosed clown. I played a bit with them. I put on
the cap. It quite becomes me. But there’s a terrible lot of dust on them.
I was just covered with dirt.

But were you not in the hall where the dance took place? It is so
cheerful there!

Yes, I was there, but just imagine what I saw. It was dark. The panes
were all broken and the wind was rustling in the wall-paper——

It makes a sound like music.

And along the wall in the darkness were squatted the guests. Oh, if you
only knew how they looked!

We know!

And with grinning teeth they barked abruptly: “How costly! How gorgeous!”

Surely you are joking!

Of course I am joking. You know how jolly I am.

How costly! How luxurious!

How gorgeous!

    _Subdued laughter._

Remind him.

How costly! How gorgeous!

Do you remember the music at your ball?

He will soon die.

The dancers circled about and the music played so tenderly, so
beautifully. This is the way it played.

    _They form a semicircle about MAN and in a low voice hum the
    tune that was played at the ball._

Let’s have a ball. It is so long since I have danced.

Just imagine that this is a palace, a miraculously beautiful palace.

Call the musicians! You cannot have a good dance without music.

Musicians!

Do you remember?

    _They strike up the tune and at the same moment the three
    musicians who played at the ball descend the stairs. The one
    with a violin carefully spreads the handkerchief over his
    shoulder, and all three begin to play with extreme painstaking,
    though the sounds are low, soft, and sad as in a dream._

Now we have a ball!

How costly! How gorgeous!

How brilliant!

Do you remember?

    _Humming in a low tone in time with the music, they begin to
    circle about MAN, posturing and repeating with wild distortions
    the movements of the girls in white robes who danced at the
    ball. During the first musical phrase they circle about, and
    during the second they approach each other and then draw apart
    gracefully and silently. They whisper in low voices._

Do you remember?

You will soon die, but do you remember?

Do you remember?

Do you remember?

You will soon die, but do you remember?

Do you remember?

    _The dance becomes swifter and the movements more jerky.
    Through the voices of the OLD WOMEN who are singing there glide
    strange, whimpering notes; and the same strange laughter, as
    yet subdued, runs like a low rustling through the dancers. As
    they sweep past MAN they discharge, as it were, into his ears
    abrupt whispers_:

Do you remember?

Do you remember?

How tender! How fine!

How restful to the soul!

Do you remember?

You will soon die. You will soon die. You will soon die——

Do you remember?

    _The whirling dance becomes swifter and the movements still
    more abrupt. Suddenly all is silent and motionless. The
    musicians become rigid, with their instruments in their hands.
    The dancing women are motionless in the same attitudes in
    which the oncoming of silence found them._

    _MAN rises, straightens himself, throws back threateningly his
    beautiful grey head, and cries out in a challenging voice,
    unexpectedly loud and full of sorrow and anger. After each
    brief utterance there is a short but profound silence._

MAN. Where is my armour-bearer? Where my sword? Where is my shield? I am
weaponless. Come hither quickly, quickly. Be accurs——

    [_He sinks upon a chair with head thrown back and dies._

    _At the same instant the candle, flaring up, goes out, and a
    deep gloom envelops all objects. It is as though the gloom
    were pouring down the stairway and gradually spreading
    over everything. Only the face of MAN is illuminated. Low,
    indistinct conversation of the OLD WOMEN, whispering and
    interchanging laughter._

THE BEING IN GREY. Silence! Man is dead.

    _Profound silence, during which the same cold, indifferent
    voice repeats the words from the far distance like an echo_:
    “Silence! Man is dead.” _Profound silence. Slowly the gloom
    becomes thicker, but the mice-like figures of the OLD WOMEN
    watchers can still be seen. Now quietly and silently they begin
    to circle about the corpse. Then they begin to hum in a low
    tone, and the musicians begin to play. The gloom becomes still
    more dense, and as the music and singing become louder and
    louder the wild dance becomes more unrestrained. They are no
    longer dancing but wildly whirling about the corpse, stamping
    and shrieking with continuous, wild laughter. Absolute darkness
    ensues. The face of the dead is still illumined, but presently
    that also vanishes. Black, impenetrable darkness._

    _In the darkness one can hear the movements of the wild
    dancers, the shrieking, the laughter, and the discordant and
    desperately loud sounds of the orchestra. Having attained their
    greatest intensity, all these sounds quickly withdraw somewhere
    and die away. Silence._

_Curtain._




ACT V

THE DEATH OF MAN

(VARIANT)


[It was only after “The Life of Man” had been presented on the stage that
I became convinced I had fallen into error—both as regards the form and
also as regards the fundamental meaning of the play.

As for the form, I could be content to leave the play unchanged. Written
in a period of doubts and fears, it might be allowed to stand as my first
attempt at a neo-realistic drama. Sins against the fundamental meaning
are, however, quite another matter.

Leaving it to others to judge how far I am right and how far I am wrong
in my interpretation of the meaning of human life, I am bound, both for
my own sake and for the purpose of greater consistency and clearness, to
correct such defects in the play as either obscure its fundamental idea
or present that idea in an incomplete and unfinished form.

In the fifth act, a variant of which I now offer, the most essential
defect was the incorporation into the drama of a relatively incidental
element, namely, the Drunkards, and the absence of so essential a group,
and a group so important in life as the Heirs, who naturally complete the
groups of Kinsmen, Friends, and Enemies of Man.

By introducing into the drama the barroom and the Drunkards I did not,
of course, intend to imply that every man dies inevitably in a barroom.
Nevertheless, several of my critics quite erroneously drew the following
series of inferences: “I do not go to barrooms, consequently this is
not true, consequently I shall never die, consequently what sort of a
Life of Man is this?” But the loneliness of Man dying in misfortune,
to suggest which these people, themselves so solitary and unfortunate,
were introduced, may be indicated fully by the presence of the Heirs.
While the Drunkards merely give Man an opportunity to die in solitude,
the Heirs, on the other hand, with the natural pitilessness of all
successors, not only urge him to die, but actually force death upon him.
_Succession_ is an important element which I left out of consideration in
my first picture of “The Death of Man.”

_Mercy_ was absent from my play, and this also seemed to many to be
unjust. In the present version it is represented in the character of the
Sister of Mercy, and although during the whole of the act she does not
open her eyes once, yet her very presence bears witness to the fact that
mercy really exists.

Reminding my readers, however, that justice is merely a new or as yet
unexposed error, I bring to a close my explanations (perhaps superfluous)
and submit this new version of “The Death of Man” to the kindly judgment
of the reader.

                                                                  AUTHOR.]

    _The high, gloomy room in which the SON and the WIFE of MAN
    died. On everything lies the stamp of ruin and death. The walls
    are warped and threaten to fall. The corners are overspread
    with cobwebs—regular, light-coloured circles inextricably
    interlaced. From the sagging ceiling likewise hang dark-grey
    clumps of abandoned spider-webs. The two tall windows have
    been forced inward and are bent as though by the steady and
    persistent pressure of the infinitude of darkness which
    surrounds the house of MAN. Should the windows not hold
    firm—should they fall inward—the darkness would pour into the
    room and extinguish the feeble, dying light by which it is
    illuminated._

    _In the rear wall a zigzag stairway leads upward to the rooms
    where once the ball was given. At the foot of the stairs the
    warped, decayed steps can be seen, but farther upward they are
    lost in a dense and frowning darkness. By this wall stands a
    bed under a sagging, torn baldachin—the bed on which the WIFE
    of MAN died._

    _On the right is the dark opening of a large, cold,
    long-disused fireplace, in which, in a great heap of grey,
    dead ashes, can be seen a white sheet of partly burned paper,
    apparently a design. Before the fireplace in an armchair MAN
    sits motionless, dying. In his torn gown and unkempt grey hair
    and beard one can see the complete abandonment and solitude of
    death. Some little distance from MAN, in an armchair of the
    same sort, sits a SISTER OF MERCY, fast asleep, a white cross
    on her breast. During the whole act she does not once waken._

    _About the dying man are seated the HEIRS, surrounding him
    closely in a circle of eagerly outstretched faces. There
    are seven of them, three women and four men. Their necks
    are greedily stretched out toward MAN, their mouths are
    half-opened, expressing avarice, and the fingers on their
    uplifted hands are hooked stiffly like the claws of birds of
    prey. Among them there are large, well-fed people, particularly
    one gentleman, whose fat body welters formlessly upon the
    chair; but, from the manner in which they sit and in which
    they look at MAN, one can see that they have been hungry all
    their lives, that all their lives they have been awaiting the
    inheritance, and that apparently they are still hungry._

    _In one corner the BEING IN GREY, with the candle nearly burned
    out, stands motionless. The narrow, blue flame flutters, now
    bending to one side and now reaching upward with a sharp
    tongue, and throws livid spots of light on His stony face and
    chin._

CONVERSATION OF THE HEIRS

    _They speak in loud voices._

Dear kinsman, are you sleeping?

Dear kinsman, are you sleeping?

Dear kinsman, are you sleeping or not? Answer us.

We are your friends.

Your heirs.

Answer us.

    _MAN is silent. The HEIRS change their voices to a loud
    whisper._

He says nothing.

He doesn’t hear. He is deaf.

No, he is only pretending. He hates us, and he would be glad to drive us
away, but he can’t. We are his heirs.

Every time we come he looks at us as if we had come to kill him. As if he
were not dying of himself!

The fool!

That’s from old age. All people become fools in their old age.

No, it’s his greed. He would be glad to carry everything with him to the
grave. He doesn’t know that man goes to the grave empty-handed.

Why do you so hate our dear kinsman?

Because he is slow in dying. [_Louder_] Old man, why don’t you die? You
are spoiling our life. You are robbing us. Your clothes are torn and
rotten, your house is tumbling down, your furniture is getting old and
losing its value.

That is true, he is robbing us.

Sh! Why shout?

Old man, you are stripping us of our own.

But perhaps our dear kinsman hears us.

Let him hear. It is always good to hear the truth.

But perhaps he has still enough strength to make a will and deprive us of
the inheritance.

Do you think so?

    _They laugh affectedly. They speak softly with assumed
    tenderness, but yet so loud that MAN can hear them._

Nonsense. He was always an intelligent man with a sense of humour, and he
understands a joke perfectly well. Is it not true, my dear kinsman?

Of course we were joking.

We can wait any length of time; it is only that we are sorry for him.
It’s so sad to sit day and night all alone before the empty fireplace. Is
it not true, dear kinsman?

Why doesn’t he go to bed?

Oh, it is just a little whim. His wife died on this bed, and he will
never allow any one to touch either the linen or the pillows.

But time has already touched them.

They smell of decay.

Everything here smells of decay. [_He sniffs._

Really, when you stop to reflect that in this fireplace he used to burn
whole logs so wastefully——

Do you remember his ball? Our dear kinsman scattered his money so freely.

_Our_ money.

But do you remember how he petted his wife, that insignificant creature!

You had better add, “who deceived him.”

Sh!

Who had a dozen paramours.

Sh! Sh!

Who lived with a lackey, yes, with her own lackey. I myself once saw them
making eyes at each other.

However, she is dead. Don’t slander the dead.

But it is so. I heard about it, too.

Poor deceived fool!

Do you see any adornments in his honoured grey hair?

Sh! Sh!

    _With exclamations of_ “Silence!” “Silence!” _they interchange
    glances and laugh slyly._

Man has no right to think only of himself. Considering how much he might
have left and how little remains——

A mere pittance.

We must thank Providence even for what is left. Our honoured kinsman is
so careless.

Just look at his gown. Isn’t it shameful to treat an expensive garment so?

Is it really so expensive? I cannot see from here what kind of cloth it
is.

Approach him cautiously and feel of it. It is silk.

    _One of the women goes up to dying MAN and, pretending that she
    is straightening his pillow, feels of the cloth. All watch her
    with curiosity._

Silk!

    _By various gestures, the HEIRS express their disgust. MAN for
    an instant rouses a little and feebly calls_: “Water!”

What does he say? Did he hear us? What does he want?

MAN. Water! In God’s name, water!

    _He ceases speaking. Several of the HEIRS, frightened, look
    here and there for water but do not find any. Voices in a tone
    of irritation and alarm_:

Water!

He is asking for water.

Yes, give him some water.

There isn’t any water.

    _They all turn toward the sleeping SISTER OF MERCY and cry
    out, putting their hands to their mouths in the fashion of a
    megaphone_:

Sister of Mercy!

Sister of Mercy!

Sister of Mercy!

We are speaking to you, Sister of Mercy! The sick man wants some water.

Shake her. What do they pay her for, if she sits there all the time
asleep?

If you want a Sister of Mercy that won’t sleep, you must pay more. Can’t
you understand?

She is very tired. The poor woman is overworked.

Let her sleep. It is a pity to disturb her when she is sleeping so
soundly. Dear kinsman, can’t you wait a bit? The Sister is very tired and
is sleeping.

    _MAN does not answer, and they all sit down again on their
    chairs in a semicircle. The feeble light which illuminates the
    room slowly grows dimmer and darkness rises in the corners.
    The darkness comes on heavily from somewhere above, down the
    staircase. It spreads over the ceiling and clings sullenly to
    every hollow in the walls._

He is quiet again. Poor man!

How dark it is! Do you not see how dark it is?

When I stop to think that he may sit thus before the fireplace for a long
time yet—weeks, perhaps months—then I feel like seizing him by his thin
neck and strangling him.

Begging your pardon, sir, although you appear to be very solicitous about
the inheritance, I must remark that I don’t know who you are.

Neither do I. Neither do I.

You are simply a nobody—a man from the street! What right have you to the
inheritance?

I am just as much an heir as you are.

No, sir, you are a scoundrel.

No, it is you who are a scoundrel.

Sh! Sh!

Drive him out! Away with him!

You are all scoundrels.

Sh! You will wake him up.

    _Savagely showing their teeth, they threaten each other with
    clinched fists._

Gentlemen, the light is going out. I can scarcely see your faces.

We must be going. Another day is wasted.

We must be going.

Well, I will remain. I am not going to leave. This is my house; mine,
mine, mine!

The rats will eat you here.

[_In a fury_] This is my house; mine, mine, mine!

One seventh part, Mr. Heir-from-the-Street—at best one seventh part.

It is my house; mine!

Gentlemen, it is getting dark.

Good night, dear kinsman.

Good night, dear kinsman.

Good night, dear kinsman.

    _One after another they go out, bowing low to MAN. Some of them
    raise the limp hand of dying MAN as it lies on the arm of the
    chair and gently press it. The HEIR-FROM-THE-STREET is left
    alone. With a contemptuous glance at silent MAN and the SISTER
    OF MERCY, he swiftly and with an angry expression examines the
    room. He touches the walls, feels of the upholstering on the
    chairs, and estimates with his eye that which he cannot reach
    with his hand. He goes to the bed on which the WIFE of MAN died
    and tests the firmness of the linen, but when the rotten cloth
    tears in his fingers, the HEIR, furiously stamping his foot,
    scatters the pillows and the sheets. Then he walks resolutely
    up to the dying MAN and takes a position behind his back._

SPEECH OF THE HEIR

Listen, old Man. You ought to die. Why insult death by hanging back? Be
off. Free living things from your dead hand. It lies on everything with
leaden weight. Look! All things are waiting eagerly for your death: these
falling walls, this spider-web and the spider imprisoned in its circles,
this dark fireplace—it used to breathe upon you with its warmth, but now
it is summoning your worn-out body to the chill of the grave. Begone!
Where you are going you will meet those who loved you, both in youth and
in old age, and those who were beloved by you.

    _Silence._

Don’t you believe it?

    [_He turns to the corner where the BEING IN GREY stands._

Ho, you! Tell him that his loved ones will meet him there, his son with
the crushed head and his wife who died of sickness and grief.

    _Silence._

You, too, are silent? And all is silent? So be it. But whatever may await
you, begone from here. I, the living, drive you forth from life, and when
you die I will bless you. I will lay wreaths upon your coffin, and on the
spot where your body will decay I will erect a monument—if it is not too
expensive. Begone!

    _Silence. The HEIR again walks up and down the room, but the
    melancholy of the place, the continually increasing darkness,
    and the heavy silence frighten him. He moves anxiously about,
    as if he had forgotten where the exit is, and speaks in a
    hoarse voice._

Sister of Mercy, wake up! Sister! Where is the door—where is the door?
Sister of Mercy!

    _Silence. In various places almost simultaneously the OLD
    WOMEN appear, and there follows a nimble, silent game very
    entertaining to the OLD WOMEN. They block the exit of the HEIR;
    they circle about the room and, thus noiselessly thrusting him
    hither and thither, finally let him pass through to the door.
    Raising his hands above his head with an expression of horror,
    the HEIR runs out. Subdued laughter on the part of the OLD
    WOMEN._

CONVERSATION OF THE OLD WOMEN

Good evening.

Good evening. What a glorious night!

Well, we are together again. How are you?

I have a cough.

    _Subdued laughter._

It won’t be long now. He’ll soon die.

Look at the candle. The flame is blue and narrow and drooping toward the
sides. The wax is already consumed—only the wick is left, and that will
soon burn out.

It does not want to go out.

Did you ever see a flame that wanted to go out?

Stop quarrelling! Stop quarrelling! Whether the flame wants to go out or
not, time is passing.

Time is passing.

Time is passing.

Do you recall his birth? Allow me to congratulate you, my dear kinsman,
on the birth of your son.

Do you remember the rose-coloured dress and the naked throat?

And the flowers—the lilies-of-the-valley, on which the dew had not yet
dried, and the violets, and the green grass?

Don’t touch them, girls. Don’t touch the flowers!

    _They laugh._

Time is passing.

Time is passing.

    _Laughter. One of the OLD WOMEN puts the bed in order._

What are you doing?

I am making the bed on which his wife died.

What’s the use of that? He’ll soon be dead.

Don’t bother me. I am making the bed on which his wife died.

How kind you are!

Now all is right. Now he can go.

When He permits him.

Now all is right; now all is right.

    _Like a deep sigh there sweeps through the room a harmonious
    but very sad and strange sound. Originating somewhere above, it
    tremulously dies out in the dark corners. It is as though many
    harp-strings were snapping one after another._

Sh! Do you hear it?

What’s that?

It’s up above where the ball was. That’s the music.

No, it’s the wind. I was there; I saw it, and I know it is the wind. The
window-glass is broken and the wind is playing a chord over the sharp
points of the glass.

It _is_ like music.

How cheerful it is up there! The guests are squatting in the darkness by
the tattered walls. Oh, if you only knew how they look!

We know.

And with grinning teeth they bark abruptly: “How costly!” “How gorgeous!”

Surely you are joking!

Of course I am joking. You know how jolly I am.

How costly! How gorgeous!

How brilliant!

    _Subdued laughter._

Remind him.

    _They surround MAN, pressing close to him with gentle,
    caressing movements. They fondle him with their bony hands.
    They peer into his face and whisper slyly, probing the inmost
    recesses of his old heart._

Do you remember?

How costly! How gorgeous!

Do you remember the music at your ball?

He will soon die.

The dancers circled about and the music played so tenderly, so
beautifully. This is the way it went.

    _With low voices they hum the air of the music which was played
    at the ball._

Do you remember?

Let’s have a ball. It is so long since I have danced. Just imagine that
this is a palace, a miraculously beautiful palace!

Do you remember? Hark, the singing violins pour forth their notes! Hear
how tenderly the flute sings! Hear how——

    _Strains of music, suddenly interrupting the speech of the OLD
    WOMAN, begin to play in the room above, where the ball was
    held. The sounds are loud and distinct. The OLD WOMEN listen
    attentively._

Sh! Do you hear?

They are playing.

The musicians are playing.

    _One of them cries out in a loud voice_: “Ho, musicians!
    Hither!”

    _The others echo her_: “Ho, musicians! Hither! Ho, musicians!
    Hither!”

    _The music above ceases, and almost at the same moment the
    three musicians who played at the ball, issuing from the
    darkness, descend the warped staircase. They come out to the
    centre of the stage and stand in a row, as they stood before.
    The one with the violin carefully spreads a handkerchief
    over his shoulder, and all three begin to play with extreme
    painstaking. The sounds, however, are tender, low, and sad, as
    in a dream._

Now we have a ball! How costly! How gorgeous!

How brilliant!

Do you remember?

    _Humming softly in time to the music, they begin to circle
    about MAN, posturing and repeating with wild distortions the
    movements of the girls in white robes who danced at the ball.
    During the first musical phrase they circle about; during the
    second they approach each other and then draw apart gracefully
    and silently. They speak in loud whispers_:

Do you remember?

You will soon die, but do you remember?

Do you remember?

Do you remember?

You will soon die, but do you remember?

Do you remember?

    _The dance becomes swifter and the movements more jerky.
    Through the voices of the OLD WOMEN who are singing there
    glides a strange, whimpering note; and the same strange
    laughter, as yet subdued, runs through the dancers like a low
    rustling. As they sweep past MAN they discharge, as it were,
    into his ears abrupt whispers_:

Do you remember?

Do you remember?

How tender! How fine!

How restful to the soul!

Do you remember?

You will soon die! You will soon die! You will soon die——

Do you remember?

    _The whirling dance becomes swifter and the movements still
    more jerky. Suddenly all is silent and motionless. The
    musicians are petrified with their instruments in their hands;
    the dancing women stand motionless in the attitudes in which
    the oncoming of silence found them._

    _MAN rises. With staggering, unsteady steps he walks toward
    the bed. One of the OLD WOMEN bars his way and whispers in his
    face_:

Don’t lie on the bed; you will die there!

You will die there!

Beware of the bed!

    _MAN pauses, helpless, and sadly begs_: “Help me, somebody! I
    cannot reach the bed.” _Suddenly the scales fall from his eyes.
    He sees the malicious OLD WOMEN watching and mischievously
    sporting with death. He sees the ruin and darkness and
    destruction that pervade everything about him. He sees as if
    for the first time the stony face of the BEING IN GREY and
    the candle slowly burning out. He raises his hand and the OLD
    WOMEN give way before him. He throws back threateningly his
    grey-haired, beautiful head, stands erect, and, preparing
    for his last battle, he cries out in a challenging voice,
    unexpectedly loud and full of grief and anger. In the first
    brief expression one can still hear the feebleness of age,
    but with each succeeding utterance the voice becomes more
    youthful and stronger, and the candle, reflecting for a
    moment the life that has returned, flames up high, red and
    quavering, illuminating all about it with the sombre glow of a
    conflagration._

MAN. Where is my armour-bearer? Where is my sword? Where is my shield? I
am weaponless! Come quickly, quickly! Be accursed!

    _He falls at the foot of the bed and dies. At the same instant
    the flame of the candle with one last feeble flare goes out,
    and deep gloom envelops all objects. It is as if the walls
    and the windows that had formerly held back the darkness had
    finally given way and the darkness had flooded everything
    with a dense, black, triumphant wave. Only the face of MAN is
    illumined. Low, indistinct conversation of the OLD WOMEN is
    heard, together with whispering and interchanging of laughter._

BEING IN GREY. Silence! Man is dead.

    _Profound silence. The same cold, indifferent voice repeats
    the words from the far distance like an echo_: “Silence! Man
    is dead.” _Profound silence. Slowly the gloom becomes denser,
    though the mice-like figures of the OLD WOMEN watchers can
    still be seen. Quietly and silently they begin to circle about
    the corpse. Then they begin to hum in a low tone, and the
    musicians start playing. The gloom becomes still more dense,
    the music and singing louder and louder, and the wild dance
    more unrestrained. They are no longer dancing but wildly
    whirling about the corpse with stamping and shrieking and wild,
    uninterrupted laughter. Complete darkness ensues. The face of
    the dead is still illumined, but presently that also vanishes.
    Black, impenetrable darkness._

    _In the darkness one can hear the movements of the wild
    dancers, the shrieking and laughter, and the discordant and
    desperately loud sounds of the orchestra. On attaining their
    highest pitch, all these sounds swiftly recede somewhere and
    die away. Silence._

_Curtain._




THE SABINE WOMEN

A BIT OF ROMAN HISTORY

IN THREE ACTS




ACT I


    _A wild, rugged spot, at daybreak. As the sun rises, armed
    ROMANS enter from the hills, dragging with them the beautiful
    but dishevelled SABINE WOMEN. The latter resist, scream, and
    scratch—all but one, who, perfectly quiet, seems to have fallen
    asleep in the arms of the ROMAN who carries her. The captors,
    groaning with the pain of their scratches, quickly drop the
    WOMEN in a heap and, hastily retreating, rearrange their
    clothing. They pant as if exhausted. The screaming subsides.
    The WOMEN, watching suspiciously the movements of the men,
    also set themselves to rights. They whisper and chatter in low
    tones._

FIRST ROMAN. By Hercules! I’m as wet as a muskrat. I’ll wager my woman
weighed four hundred pounds at least.

SECOND ROMAN. You needn’t have picked the biggest of the lot. For my
part, I chose a thin little thing, and——

FIRST ROMAN. What’s happened to your face? You don’t mean to say that
thin little thing——

SECOND ROMAN. Wow! She scratches like a cat.

FIRST ROMAN. They all scratch like cats. I have been in a hundred
battles. I have been hacked with swords, beaten with clubs, bruised with
stones. Gates and walls have fallen on me, but this is the worst yet. My
Roman nose is a wreck.

THIRD ROMAN. If I hadn’t been clean shaved in the ancient Roman fashion,
there wouldn’t be a hair left on my face. You know what nice, slender
fingers and what amazingly sharp nails they have. Well, talk about cats!
Cats is no name for them. Mine never said a word, but all the way she
just plucked out the down.

A TALL, FAT ROMAN. [_Speaks in a bass voice_] Mine got her hands under my
breastplate and tickled me in the armpits so that I laughed the whole way.

    _A low, contemptuous laugh from the WOMEN._

FIRST ROMAN. Sh! They can hear us.

SECOND ROMAN. Come, gentlemen; stop your whining and spruce up. It would
be a pity for the ladies to lose their respect for us on this very first
day. Just look at Emilius Paulus. There’s a man who keeps up his dignity.

THIRD ROMAN. Radiant as Aurora!

FOURTH ROMAN. By Hercules! Not a scratch on him. How did you manage it,
Paulus?

PAULUS. [_With feigned modesty_] Oh, I don’t know. She clung to me from
the start as if I were her husband. You astonish me, gentlemen. Why, it
was simplicity itself. When I took her up she spontaneously threw her
arms about my neck. The only danger was that she would hug me to death.
Her arms may be slender, but they are strong.

FIRST ROMAN. There’s luck for you.

PAULUS. Simplicity itself, I tell you. Her innocent, confiding little
heart told her that I loved her truly and respected her. Half the way she
slept like a weary child, though you, of course, won’t believe that.

THE FAT ROMAN. Pardon me, gentlemen, but how are we going to tell which
is which? Having stolen them in the dark like chickens from a hen-coop——

    _From the group of WOMEN comes the indignant exclamation_:
    “What a disgusting comparison!”

FIRST ROMAN. Sh! They can hear us.

THE FAT ROMAN. [_Lowering his voice an octave_] Well, how are we to
pick them out? Mine was a very jolly sort, and I shan’t give her up to
anybody. And, anyway, I’m not going to let people tread on my toes.

SECOND ROMAN. Chucklehead!

THIRD ROMAN. I shall know mine by her voice. I shan’t forget her
screaming, come Christmas.

FOURTH ROMAN. I shall know mine by her nails.

SCIPIO. And I shall know mine by the wonderful fragrance of her hair.

PAULUS. And I mine by the modesty and beauty of her soul. O Romans!
We stand on the threshold of a new life. Tedious solitude, farewell!
Farewell, interminable nights, with your accursed nightingales! Let the
nightingale sing now, or any other bird—I’m ready.

THE FAT ROMAN. Yes, it is time that we entered on the domestic stage of
life.

    _Ironical exclamations from the WOMEN_: “Oh, yes! Why don’t you
    try it? Come on!”

FIRST ROMAN. Sh! They can hear us.

SECOND ROMAN. It’s high time—high time, I say.

THIRD ROMAN. Gentlemen, who goes first?

    _Silence. All stand motionless. Low, mocking laughter on the
    part of the WOMEN._

THE FAT ROMAN. For my part, I’ve had all the tickling I want. Let some
one else try it. And, anyway, I’m not going to let any one tread on my
toes. Here, Paulus, you go.

PAULUS. Brute! Don’t you see that my darling is still asleep? Look—that
dark clump there under the stones—that’s she. O innocent soul!

SCIPIO. Gentlemen, it is apparent from your attitude of indecision and
from your confusion—a wholly justified confusion, I may say—that no one
of you has the courage to approach these merciless creatures. Now, here
is my plan——

THE FAT ROMAN. Wise head!

SCIPIO. Here, I say, is my plan. Let us advance in a body, and quite
leisurely, each one hiding himself behind the others. Certainly, if we
were not afraid of their husbands——

THE FAT ROMAN. Their husbands! Bosh!

    _Deep sighs from the WOMEN and demonstrative weeping._

FIRST ROMAN. Sh! They can hear us.

SCIPIO. There you go again, Mark Antony, with that mouth of yours.
We must avoid this unlucky word husband. You see how it works on the
feelings of these poor women. Well, gentlemen, do you agree to my plan?

THE ROMANS. Agreed! Agreed!

SCIPIO. Well, then, gentlemen——

    _The ROMANS prepare for the attack, the WOMEN prepare to
    defend themselves. In the place of lovely faces are seen sharp
    finger-nails, ready to bury themselves in face and hair. A
    low, hissing is heard, as of snakes. The ROMANS advance in
    accordance with their plan; that is, each one hides himself
    behind some one else, with the result that they all fall back
    and take shelter in the wings. The WOMEN laugh. The ROMANS
    return to their places in confusion._

FIRST ROMAN. It looks as if there were some flaw in your plan, Scipio. As
Socrates would say, we advanced backward.

THE FAT ROMAN. I can’t make head or tail of it.

PAULUS. Courage, gentlemen. What is a scratch or two? Once we have
reached the goal, oh, what bliss! Forward, Romans! To the attack!

    _The ROMANS, with the exception of PAULUS, who gazes dreamily
    at the heavens, rush upon the WOMEN in a disorderly crowd,
    but, after a moment of silent struggling, retreat hastily.
    Silence. The ROMANS all rub their noses._

SCIPIO. [_Speaking through his nose_] Did you notice, gentlemen, that
they didn’t even scream? A bad omen! I prefer a screamer.

FIRST ROMAN. What’s to be done now?

SECOND ROMAN. How I long for a domestic life!

THIRD ROMAN. And I for a family hearthstone. What is life without a
family hearthstone? Now that Rome’s founded—hang it all—I’d like a little
rest.

THE FAT ROMAN. Unfortunately, gentlemen, not a single one of us
understands the psychology of the other sex. Busied with wars and the
founding of Rome, we have become crude, we have lost our polish, we have
forgotten what a woman is——

PAULUS. [_Modestly_] Not all of us.

SCIPIO. However, from the fact that these women once had husbands—whom we
routed yesterday—I draw the conclusion that there exists some means, some
mysterious method, of approaching a woman whom you do not know. But how
find out what it is?

THE FAT ROMAN. Suppose we ask the women themselves.

FIRST ROMAN. They won’t tell.

    _Spiteful laughter among the WOMEN._

SECOND ROMAN. Sh! They can hear us.

SCIPIO. Well, now, I’ve thought of a plan——

THE FAT ROMAN. Wise head!

SCIPIO. As for our charming captives, it strikes me, gentlemen, that far
from our capturing them, they have captured us. Busied in scratching
our faces, tearing out our hair, and tickling us in the armpits, they
obviously cannot hear us. Not being able to hear us, they are not open
to persuasion. Not being open to persuasion, they are not persuaded. So
there you are!

    _Repeating_ “So there you are!” _the ROMANS fall into a state
    of gloomy meditation. The WOMEN listen attentively._

SCIPIO. Well, here is my plan. Let us, in accordance with military
custom, select an envoy from our number, and ask our fair opponents to
do the same. The representatives of the warring factions, being thus in
complete security [_he feels of his nose_] under the protection of the
white flag, will be able, if I may employ a Latin expression, to reach a
_modus vivendi_, and then——

    _The ROMANS interrupt this brilliant speech with loud hurrahs.
    SCIPIO, being unanimously elected envoy, raises the white flag
    and cautiously approaches the WOMEN, at the same time calling
    over his shoulder_: “Don’t get too far away, fellows.”

SCIPIO. [_In an ingratiating tone_] Fair ladies—please stay where you
are, ladies, you see I’m under the protection of the white flag, and
the white flag, I assure you, is sacred, and my person is inviolable—it
really is— Fair ladies! Although it was only yesterday that we had
the pleasure of capturing you, already there have arisen between us
disagreements, feuds, and strange misunderstandings.

CLEOPATRA. What impudence! Just because you have tied a white rag to a
stick you needn’t think you can make these insulting speeches.

SCIPIO. [_In a conciliatory tone_] Mercy me! Insulting speeches? Quite
the contrary. I am delighted—that is to say, we are all of us perfectly
miserable. [_With the courage of despair_] I swear by Hercules we are
dead in love with you. Madam, since you seem to sympathise with us, I
venture to ask a slight favour. Please select from your number, as we
have done, an envoy——

CLEOPATRA. Oh, we know. We have already heard of it. You needn’t repeat.

SCIPIO. Why, we hardly spoke above a whisper.

VOICES OF THE WOMEN. Well, we heard, just the same.

CLEOPATRA. You go back with that rag where you belong, and wait. We
are going to talk this matter over. No—farther off, if you please. No
eavesdropping. Who is that suckling yonder with his mouth wide open?
[_Pointing at the dreaming PAULUS_] Take him away, please.

THE ROMANS. [_Whispering to one another_] Now we’re getting on.

    _They withdraw on tiptoe, some showing their good faith by
    plugging their ears._

FIRST SABINE WOMAN. How impudent! How insulting! What odious tyranny! Oh,
our poor husbands!

SECOND SABINE WOMAN. I swear I’ll scratch out a thousand eyes before I
will be disloyal for one instant to my unhappy husband. Sleep sweetly, my
beloved. In the keeping of this brave heart your honour is safe.

THIRD SABINE WOMAN. I also swear.

FOURTH SABINE WOMAN. And I.

CLEOPATRA. Alas, my dear companions, we can all of us swear, but what’s
the use? These rude, uncultured men are no respecters of oaths. Take my
captor, for instance. Although I bit his nose——

FIRST SABINE WOMAN. Oh, do you remember yours?

CLEOPATRA. [_Spitefully_] I shall remember him to my dying day. He
smelled of breastplates and swords and all the other things that go with
a coarse soldier. And he was so careless about squeezing me. Oh, my poor,
dear husband!

FIRST SABINE WOMAN. Well, they all have that soldiery smell.

SECOND SABINE WOMAN. And they all squeeze like bears. Probably it is the
military fashion.

THIRD SABINE WOMAN. When I was a little girl I remember a soldier boy
came to our house and said he was from a far-off country where——

CLEOPATRA. Ladies, this is no place for reminiscences.

THIRD SABINE WOMAN. But this soldier boy I was telling you about——

CLEOPATRA. My dear Juno, what in Venus’s name have we to do with your
soldier when every one of us has on her neck a soldier of her own? Now,
my dears, what is to be done? Here is my proposition——

VERONICA. [_Who has awakened, approaches. She is thin and impressively
tall. Languidly, her eyes half closed, she interrupts CLEOPATRA_] Where
are they? Why are they so far off? I wish they would come nearer. I am
ashamed when they are not by me. All this time I have been in a trance,
and now I cannot find the young man who carried me. He smelt like a
soldier.

CLEOPATRA. There he stands, with his mouth wide open.

VERONICA. I will go to him. I am consumed with shame.

CLEOPATRA. Hold her back! Why, Veronica, can it be that you have already
forgotten your poor, dear husband?

VERONICA. I swear I will never cease to love him. But why do we not go to
our captors—or perhaps you are planning something else, my dears? For my
part, I am ready for any fate. Let them come to us. Men are insufferably
familiar as soon as you cease being angry with them.

CLEOPATRA. Well, my dears, my first suggestion is that we take an
oath never to betray our dear, unhappy husbands. However our captors
may treat us, we shall remain firm as the Tarpeian rock. When I think
how lonely my husband is, how he vainly calls me to his empty bed,
“Cleopatra, where art thou, Cleopatra”; when I remember how he loved
me—[_The WOMEN all weep_] Come, my dears, let us swear. They are waiting
for us, you know.

SABINE WOMEN. We swear. We swear. Whatever they may do to us, we will not
betray our husbands.

CLEOPATRA. There! My mind is at rest so far as the husbands are
concerned. Sleep, beloved; sleep in peace. And now, ladies, the next
thing is to choose an envoy as the Romans suggest, and let her——

FIRST SABINE WOMAN. Scratch his eyes out.

SECOND SABINE WOMAN. No, let her give the rascal a piece of her mind.
They think we can do nothing but scratch; let them hear how we can talk.

VERONICA. [_Shrugging her lean shoulders_] What is the use of talking
when they have us in their power?

CLEOPATRA. Stop her! Ah, Veronica, might is not right, whatever Roman law
may say. Make me your envoy, and I will convince our captors that they
have no right to detain us, that they are in duty bound to let us go,
that according to divine law, or human law, or any other law, as they say
in Rome, they have acted like perfect swine.

VOICES OF WOMEN. Go, Cleopatra; do go.

FIRST SABINE WOMAN. Stop Veronica.

CLEOPATRA. Hello, there, you envoy with the white rag! Come here, please.
I want to talk with you.

SCIPIO. Shall I remove my sword?

CLEOPATRA. Never mind. Why should you? You needn’t think we are afraid of
your swords. Come, now, don’t be frightened. I shan’t bite. You weren’t
timid yesterday night when you broke into our peaceful home and rudely
tore me from the arms of my poor husband. Well, come on, if you are
coming.

    _SCIPIO approaches cautiously. The ROMANS and the SABINE WOMEN
    arrange themselves at right and left of the stage in two
    symmetrical groups and follow the parley attentively._

SCIPIO. I am charmed, madam——

CLEOPATRA. Charmed, indeed! Let me tell you that you are a scoundrel,
a lunatic, a brigand, a thief. Oh, you murderer, you miscreant, you
monster, you scum! What you have done is blasphemous, disgusting,
abominable, unheard of.

SCIPIO. Madam!

CLEOPATRA. You sicken me. You make my flesh creep. I can’t bear the sight
of you. You smell like a soldier. If your nose were not covered with
scratches, I would——

SCIPIO. Pardon me. You did the scratching.

CLEOPATRA. I? Then you are the man who— [_Looks at him contemptuously_]
Excuse me. I didn’t recognise you.

SCIPIO. [_Joyfully_] But I recognised you instantly. Your hair smells of
verbena; doesn’t it, now?

CLEOPATRA. None of your business what it smells of. Verbena perfume is as
good as any other.

SCIPIO. Just what I meant.

CLEOPATRA. I don’t care what you meant. I’ve said nothing about your
odours. And, anyway, why all this silly gabble about smells? I beg you,
my dear sir, as a man of honour, to come to the point. What do you want
of us?

    _SCIPIO modestly lowers his eyes, but, unable to hold himself
    in, snickers behind his hand. All the ROMANS snicker and the
    WOMEN bridle._

CLEOPATRA. [_Blushing_] Snickering is no answer. You’re just horrid! I
ask you, what do you want of us? I suppose you know that we are already
married.

SCIPIO. How shall I put it, madam? We are ready to offer you our hands
and hearts——

CLEOPATRA. What! You really mean it? Are you crazy?

SCIPIO. Look at us. We are no dandies from the Nevski. Having just
founded Rome, we are eager to eternalise our— Put yourself in our place,
madam, and have pity on us. Would you not pity your husbands if they woke
up some fine morning and found their wives missing? We are lonely, madam.

THE FAT ROMAN. Oh, so lonely.

VERONICA. [_Wiping her eyes_] I’m so sorry for them.

SCIPIO. In the midst of war’s alarms, busied in the founding of Rome, we
have let slip, so to speak, the moment when—Madam, we pity your husbands
from the bottom of our hearts.

CLEOPATRA. [_With dignity_] I am pleased to hear you say so.

SCIPIO. But why the devil did they give you up?

    _The ROMANS joyfully support him with_: “That’s right”; “You’ve
    struck it, Scipio”; _but the WOMEN show resentment and utter
    such exclamations as_: “How mean of them!” “They’re insulting
    our husbands.” “The insinuating wretches!”

CLEOPATRA. [_Drily_] If you wish to go on with this parley, I beg of you
to refer to our husbands with respect.

SCIPIO. With the greatest pleasure. But, madam, respect them as we may,
we cannot but admit that they are unworthy of you. At this very moment,
when your inhuman sufferings are pulling at our heart-strings, when the
hot tears evoked by your bereavement are pouring forth like mountain
brooks in spring, when the very stones, quivering with pity, moan and
repine, when your charming noses, drenched with cruel tears, lose their
wonted form and begin to swell——

CLEOPATRA. Nothing of the kind.

SCIPIO. When all nature, and so forth— Well, where are your husbands
now? I don’t see them. They are invisible. They are absent. They have
abandoned you. Shall I say, at the risk of offending, they have basely
deserted you?

    _The ROMANS stand in a haughty pose, with arms akimbo.
    Excitement and tears on the part of the WOMEN. The gentle voice
    of PROSERPINA is heard, saying_: “Really, why are they not
    here? It’s high time.”

CLEOPATRA. All very fine, and your pose is certainly handsome, but
suppose people should take it into their heads to come by night and steal
us?

SCIPIO. We shall be on the alert all night long.

CLEOPATRA. Or in the daytime?

SCIPIO. Oh, you wouldn’t think of going in the daytime.

    _The languid voice of VERONICA_: “Why are they so far away?
    I am ashamed when they are so far away. I want them to come
    nearer.”

    _Whispers among the WOMEN_: “Make her keep still.”

CLEOPATRA. Well, of all the impudence! Still, I am sorry for you,
and I really must confess to some respect and consideration for your
sufferings, though your youth has led you astray. However, I shall now
advance an argument that will at one blow shatter your air-castles and, I
hope, put you to blush. How about the children, sir?

SCIPIO. Wh—what children?

CLEOPATRA. The children we have left at home.

SCIPIO. That, madam, is, I confess, a serious question. Permit me to
withdraw for a moment in order to confer with my companions.

    _CLEOPATRA goes to the WOMEN, SCIPIO to the men. They confer in
    whispers._

SCIPIO. Madam.

CLEOPATRA. What is it?

SCIPIO. After protracted consideration, my companions, the Ancient
Romans, have instructed me to communicate to you that you will have new
children.

CLEOPATRA. [_Staggered_] Oh, do you think so?

SCIPIO. We swear it. Gentlemen, swear!

    _The ROMANS swear in a discordant chorus._

CLEOPATRA. But the surroundings are very unattractive.

SCIPIO. [_Offended_] The surroundings?

CLEOPATRA. Yes. This is a horrid place—all mountains and ravines—simply
impossible! What’s this stone doing here? Take it away, please.

SCIPIO. Oh, madam! [_Carries the stone away._

CLEOPATRA. And such trees! I’m fairly stifled here. What is this stupid
tree? But you are embarrassed, aren’t you? Permit me to withdraw. I
suppose I must give you an answer.

SCIPIO. An answer? What to?

CLEOPATRA. Why, I thought you asked me a question.

SCIPIO. I? Pardon me, madam, I must be getting stupid. What did I ask you
a question about?

CLEOPATRA. Do you mean to insult me?

SCIPIO. I?

CLEOPATRA. Yes, you. You said you were getting stupid.

SCIPIO. I?

CLEOPATRA. Certainly, _I_ didn’t say so. You are forgetting yourself, sir.

SCIPIO. I?

CLEOPATRA. Well, anyway, I am going. And you, sir, had better spruce up a
little if we are to continue to talk to one another. You _are_ a sight.
Haven’t you a handkerchief? Wipe your face. It is as sweaty as if you had
been carrying stones all day long. [_She makes as if to withdraw._

SCIPIO. Madam—allow me—I believe I did carry a stone or two, but the fact
is you made me do it.

CLEOPATRA. I? Why, I never thought of such a thing.

SCIPIO. Begging your pardon, madam, what are we talking about?

CLEOPATRA. How should I know? That’s your affair, not mine.

SCIPIO. Evidently you’re making fun of me.

CLEOPATRA. Oh, you’ve noticed it?

SCIPIO. I won’t allow myself to be ridiculed.

CLEOPATRA. How can you prevent it?

SCIPIO. I’m still a bachelor, thank God!

CLEOPATRA. Aha! At last, “thank God!” Well said, my dear sir. A nice
box we should have been in if we had trusted to your oaths. [_To her
companions_] Do you hear? They are already thankful that we are not their
wives.

SCIPIO. Heavens! This is unendurable. Either you stop making fun of me——

CLEOPATRA. Or else——

SCIPIO. Or else go home. Yes, madam, go home. This is the limit. By
Hercules, we didn’t found Rome just for the sake of sticking fast, like
flies in marmalade, in your absurd deliberations!

CLEOPATRA. Absurd?

SCIPIO. Yes, idiotic.

CLEOPATRA. [_Weeping_] You insult me.

SCIPIO. Good Lord! She’s crying. Madam, what do you want? Why did you
pick on me? Ancient Roman though I am, this woman will positively drive
me crazy. Stop your crying! I can’t make head or tail of this thing. I
don’t even know what you are blubbering about.

CLEOPATRA. [_Weeping_] Will you let us go?

SCIPIO. Certainly, certainly. Friends, Romans, do you agree? I’m at the
end of my rope.

FAT ROMAN. Yes, let them go. We’ll fetch some wives from Etruria.

SCIPIO. All right. These creatures are not women. They are——

CLEOPATRA. [_Weeping_] On your word of honour?

SCIPIO. What am I to do on my word of honour?

CLEOPATRA. You will let us go? Perhaps your promise is just a trick, and
as soon as we start to go you will lay hold of us.

SCIPIO. No, no. Run along. Are you glued to the spot?

CLEOPATRA. [_Weeping_] Will you carry us back?

SCIPIO. Heavens and earth! What next?

CLEOPATRA. You know very well that having brought us here you are in
honour bound to carry us back again. It’s a long way.

    _The WOMEN laugh maliciously. SCIPIO, panting with anger,
    casts frenzied glances about, but, after trying in vain to say
    something, stamps his foot and goes back to his friends. All
    the ROMANS pointedly turn their backs to the WOMEN, and sit
    in that position during the following scene. The WOMEN confer
    quietly._

CLEOPATRA. You have heard, my dears; they are letting us go.

VERONICA. How dreadful!

SECOND SABINE WOMAN. You might better say, “driving us away.” It’s simply
maddening! Here they carry off perfectly innocent women—rouse the whole
house in the middle of the night—turn all the furniture upside down—wake
up the children—and then, if you please—don’t want us!

FIRST SABINE WOMAN. And our poor husbands! Their sufferings are in vain.

SECOND SABINE WOMAN. Just think of it—in the night-time, when everybody
was asleep!

THIRD SABINE WOMAN. Say, do you know the way back?

FOURTH SABINE WOMAN. You don’t suppose, do you, that I was observing the
road? Of course I don’t. I only know it is dreadfully far.

THIRD SABINE WOMAN. Well, it’s obvious they won’t carry us back.

    _Subdued laughter._

VERONICA. [_Moaning_] Oh, my dear boy! See, they’ve made him turn his
back to me! I am going to him.

FIRST SABINE WOMAN. Wait a moment, Veronica. Your boy won’t leave you. We
must talk this thing over.

PROSERPINA. I wonder whether, after all, it is not all the same what
husbands we have, whether those or these. The others were all right and
these are all right. I am sure, at least, that the very first thing mine
will ask of me is to make him a hot porridge. I’d rather enjoy having a
new husband. The old one is sick of my menu, but this gawk will enjoy it.

CLEOPATRA. For shame, Proserpina! History will condemn us.

PROSERPINA. A lot history will understand about our doings! And here in
Rome it’s not so very bad, after all.

CLEOPATRA. You’re horrid, Proserpina. Just suppose they should be
listening to us! But here’s my plan, my dears. Though we are, of course,
going home at once to our dear, late husbands, it is a long walk, and we
are tired.

FIRST SABINE WOMAN. My nerves are completely shattered!

SECOND SABINE WOMAN. No constitution could stand it! All of a sudden in
the middle of the night to wake up the whole house——

CLEOPATRA. So let’s stay here a day or two and rest. That will please
them and commit us to nothing. Besides, when they see how cheerful
and modest we are, our captors will find it easier to part with us. I
confess, too, that I am a little sorry for mine. His nose is a sight.

THIRD SABINE WOMAN. But we’ll stay only two days!

FOURTH SABINE WOMAN. One day will be enough for me. We’ll just take a
little walk— Hurry, Cleopatra, I think they have already fallen asleep.

CLEOPATRA. [_To SCIPIO_] Sir!

SCIPIO. [_Not turning around_] What you want?

CLEOPATRA. Come here a moment, please.

SCIPIO. At your service, madam.

CLEOPATRA. We have decided to accept your kind offer and to go away at
once. You are not angry?

SCIPIO. Not at all.

CLEOPATRA. But first we should like to rest a little. Will you let us
stay here a day or so and rest? This is a lovely spot.

    _All the ROMANS simultaneously turn around and spring to their
    feet._

SCIPIO. [_In ecstasy_] Dear madam! What has the place to do with it, and
what—? O Jupiter! Madam, I swear by Hercules, I swear by Venus, I swear
by Bacchus! Madam, may I be thrice anathema if— I swear by Aphrodite!
Gentlemen, Ancient Romans! Board the ship!

CLEOPATRA. I suggest that we take a little stroll.

SCIPIO. Oh, madam! Gentlemen, Romans! Foot-pace! Dress front! left,
right; left, right! Column of twos! [_He seizes CLEOPATRA by the arm
and leads her toward the hills. At his command the ROMANS, each seizing
a SABINE WOMAN, proudly march in file behind him._] Left, right; left,
right! One, two; one, two!

PAULUS EMILIUS. [_Left dreaming alone upon the stage, rushes about,
crying pitifully_] Where is she? Gentlemen, Ancient Romans, wait! I have
lost her. Where is she?

    _VERONICA stands like a bride, her eyes modestly cast down._

PAULUS. [_Flying toward her blindly_] Beg your pardon, madam, have you
seen her?

VERONICA. You stupid!

PAULUS. I?

VERONICA. Yes, stupid!

PAULUS. Why, what are you scolding me for?

VERONICA. Scolding you! You silly! Can’t you see? Oh, my darling boy! I
have waited for you thirty years! Oh, take——

PAULUS. Take what?

VERONICA. Me. You see it is I, she— Oh, you stupid thing!

PAULUS. You? No, you are not the right one.

VERONICA. Yes, I am.

PAULUS. No, you’re not. [_He sits on the ground and weeps._

VERONICA. See, they have left us alone, and I am ashamed. Come!

PAULUS. [_Weeps_] You are not the right one.

VERONICA. But I say I am, plague take you! Did any one ever see the like!
My husband repeated that phrase, “You are the wrong one,” for thirty
years, and now this suckling is at it. Give me your hand.

PAULUS. [_Gets up in terror_] You are the wrong one. Oh, oh, oh, save me!
She has captured me!

_Curtain._




ACT II


    _A scene shrouded in gloom, symbolising the sad plight of the
    bereaved husbands. Possibly rain is falling, and the wind
    whistling, and perhaps black clouds cover the sky; but very
    likely it just seems so. At any rate, the gloom is horrible.
    The_ mise en scène _should suggest that the husbands are
    plunged in grief and would like to be relieved of it._

    _As the curtain rises the disposition of the characters is as
    follows: At the sides, in two symmetrical groups, a part of
    the SABINE MEN are engaged in gymnastic exercises. As they
    move their arms they repeat with rapt attention_: “Twenty-five
    minutes’ daily drill will banish every pain and ill.” _In the
    middle of the stage, on a long bench, sit in a row the husbands
    who have children. Each one holds a baby in his arms. Their
    heads droop wearily to one side and their attitudes dramatise
    despair. It is a distressing picture. For a long time nothing
    is heard but the ominous, barely audible whisper_: “Twenty-five
    minutes’ daily drill——”

    _Enter ANCUS MARTIUS, exhibiting from a distance a letter._

MARTIUS. The address, Sabines! The address of our wives! The address,
gentlemen, the address!

HUSHED VOICES. Hear! Hear! The address! The address! We have the address!

    _ANCUS MARTIUS quickly takes from his pocket a little bell and
    jingles it._

VOICES. Silence! Silence!

MARTIUS. Gentlemen, Sabines, history will not reproach us either for
dilatoriness or indecision. Neither dilatoriness nor indecision are
traits of the Sabine, whose stormy, impetuous character can scarcely be
restrained by the flood-gates of reason and experience. Recall, plundered
husbands, whither we rushed on the memorable morning which followed the
memorable night when those brigands basely kidnapped our hapless wives.
Do you recall, Sabines, whither our nimble legs carried us, devouring
space, annihilating all obstacles, and filling the land with din. Come,
recall, gentlemen!

    _The SABINES maintain a timid silence._

MARTIUS. Come, come, recall, gentlemen!

A TIMID VOICE. Proserpina, Proserpina, my darling! Where art thou?
O-o-o-oh!

    _The SABINES, in rapt silence, gaze at the mouth of the
    speaker._

ANCUS MARTIUS. [_Without waiting for an answer, cries impressively_] To
the Information Bureau! That’s where. But recall, gentlemen, our grief.
That effete institution as yet knew nothing and gave us no correction of
their previous addresses. And, having for a whole week replied to our
inquiries with ever the same cruel irony, it finally responded in these
burning words [_he reads_]: “Left for parts unknown.” But, Sabines, did
we rest satisfied? Recall.

    _SABINES maintain silence._

MARTIUS. No, we did not rest satisfied. Here is a dry but eloquent
enumeration of our achievements in these brief eighteen months. We have
inserted advertisements in all reputable newspapers, with promises of
reward to the finder. We have summoned all the prominent astrologers,
and every night from their observation of the stars they have sought to
divine the address of our hapless wives——

A TIMID VOICE. Proserpina, my darling, o-o-o-oh!

MARTIUS. Not only have we sacrificed one thousand chickens, geese, and
ducks, but we have disembowelled all the cats in our endeavours by the
inspection of birds and animals to determine the portentous address.
But, alas, through the will of the gods our superhuman efforts have been
frustrated! Recall, Sabines— However, it’s not necessary. I will only add
that neither experimental nor theoretical science has given us an answer.
Even the constellations, to which our gaze was turned with sorrowful
inquiry, though they deigned to reply, were no more definite than the
Information Bureau: Left, left, left! Whither? For parts unknown!

    _Subdued weeping among the SABINES._

A TIMID VOICE. Proserpina! Oh! Proserpina!

MARTIUS. Yes, Sabines, a strange answer to receive from the
constellations when one considers that from their point of vantage the
whole universe is visible. But I continue with pride the enumeration of
our achievements. Recall, gentlemen, what our learned jurists were doing
while the astrologers were conjecturing from the stars. Come, now, recall!

    _The SABINES maintain silence._

MARTIUS. Come, recall, gentlemen. It’s strenuous work talking to you.
You stand like statues; by Heaven, you do! I am sure you remember, only
you are modest about speaking. Come, now, gentlemen; come, come, come,
recall! What were our jurists doing while——

A TIMID VOICE. Proserpina, o-o-o-oh! o-o-o-oh!

MARTIUS. Silence, there! Why are you eternally dragging in your
Proserpina? Well, I will help you, gentlemen. Do you remember why we are
practising gymnastics? Come, come!

A TIMID VOICE. [_From the back row_] To develop our muscles.

MARTIUS. To be sure, and very well said. And now, why do we need muscles?
Come, come, answer up! Gentlemen, you wear one’s patience completely out.
Jog your memories. Why do we need muscles, Sabines?

A HESITATING VOICE. To fight with.

MARTIUS. [_Raising his arms to heaven in despair_] Ye Heavens! “To fight
with!” And I hear that from a Sabine, a friend of the law, a patron of
order, the only genuine example of a legal conscience in the world!
“To fight with!” I am ashamed of this ruffianly breach of etiquette
appropriate only to the brigand Romans, the base kidnappers of our
absolutely legal wives.

A TIMID VOICE. Oh, Proserpina, Proserpina!

MARTIUS. Hold your tongue, will you? Proserpina, indeed! Just when
we are getting down to general principles you must come in with your
maundering about Proserpina! But I see, gentlemen, that this bereavement
has somewhat dimmed your usually brilliant memories, and so I repeat in
brief: We need muscles in order that, having learned the address and
entered upon our march against the Romans—do you understand?—we may be
able to carry the entire distance the heavy code of laws, the collection
of enactments and decisions on appeal, and also—do you understand
now?—the four hundred volumes of investigations which our jurists have
compiled on the question of the legality of our marriages—eh, do you
understand?—and on the illegality of kidnapping. Our weapons, Sabines,
are the justice of our cause and a clear conscience. We will prove to
the base kidnappers that they _are_ kidnappers, and to our wives we will
prove that they were kidnapped, and Heaven will shudder; for now that
the address is found, it’s all up with the Romans. Look! [_He shakes
the letter and the SABINES, standing on tiptoe, peek at it_] Here is a
registered letter signed “A Repentant Kidnapper.” In it some unknown
friend expresses repentance for his thoughtless crime. He assures us that
he will no longer kidnap, and prays that fate may have mercy upon him.
The name is undecipherable—blurred by a big blot where, apparently, tears
have fallen. There, gentlemen! That is the power of conscience! He also
informs us, by the way, that the hearts of our wives are broken——

A TIMID VOICE. Proserpin——

MARTIUS. Please listen, will you? Between you and your Proserpina I
cannot get a word in edgewise. Proserpina, you must remember, is a mere
detail, and yet at a time when we are all with such enthusiasm working
out general problems, when we are formulating a plan—I’ll tell you about
it presently—when we are preparing for victory or death, you whine for
some insignificant Proserpina or somebody. In the name of the assembly, I
call you to order. And now, gentlemen, forward! Attention! Form in rank
and file! Come, step lively, gentlemen! Oh, this is maddening! You cannot
even yet distinguish right from left. Where are you going? Where are you
going? Halt! [_He seizes a SABINE who is out of line and instructs him_]
In order to learn which your right foot is, you must stand still and look
at me. Now place yourself with your face to the north—or, no, with your
face to the south and your back to the east. Now, where is your face?
Man, that is not your face, that is your back. See, here is your face;
can’t you understand? Oh, this is intolerable! If you want to know which
your right foot is, look at your neighbour. Now, gentlemen, which of you
have penknives? Turn your pockets inside out. Good. Toothpicks? Leave
them behind. Not a suggestion of violence, gentlemen; nothing that pricks
or cuts. Our weapons are a clear conscience and the justice of our cause.
Now each one of you take up a volume of the laws and investigations.
Good! They ought to be bound, but we’ll attend to that later. Now you
see what muscles are for! Very good, very good. Trumpeters to the front!
Remember, you’re to play “The March of the Plundered Husbands.” Forw—
Hold on! Do you remember how to march?

    _The SABINES remain silent._

MARTIUS. You don’t? Well, I will remind you. Two steps forward, one step
backward; two steps forward, one step backward. The first two steps are
designed to indicate, Sabines, 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 of the mature mind. In
taking that step we ponder the outcome of our acts. In taking it we also
maintain, as it were, a close bond with tradition, with our ancestors,
with our great past. History makes no leaps, and we, Sabines, at this
great moment, we are history. Trumpeters, trumpet!

    _The trumpets emit a doleful wail, which, now convulsively
    lurching forward and now smoothly and gently swaying backward,
    carries with it the whole army of plundered husbands. Taking
    two steps forward and one step backward, they slowly pass
    across the stage._

    _The curtain falls. The trumpets blare wearily and the second
    scene passes into the third._

    The St. Petersburg theatre, “The Convex Mirror,” very
    successfully adapted for this scene the air of the
    “Marseillaise.” In the first two measures the trumpets sounded
    boldly and triumphantly, while in the succeeding measure they
    emitted a kind of belch as mournful as it was distressing.




ACT III


    _The same wild scene as in the first act, though there are
    now some traces of orderliness. Near one of the huts stands a
    ROMAN in a lazy attitude, blissfully picking his nose. In the
    background, at the left, the army of husbands is seen marching
    with concentrated attention in the same manner as before: two
    steps forward, one step backward. The ROMAN, on catching sight
    of them, shows at first signs of animation, and, ceasing to
    attend to his nose, watches them with goodnatured curiosity.
    The slowness of their movements, however, apparently makes
    him drowsy. He yawns, stretches languidly, and seats himself
    leisurely on a stone. At a signal from ANCUS MARTIUS the
    trumpets cease._

MARTIUS. [_In a tone of despair_] Halt, Sabines! Halt, will you?

    _The SABINES halt as if rooted to the spot._

MARTIUS. Come, halt, will you? Oh, Heavens! Will nothing hold back this
falling avalanche? Will nothing— Thank God, they have halted! Attention!
Trumpeters, to the rear! Professors, to the front. The rest, attention!

    _The TRUMPETERS withdraw, the PROFESSORS advance. The rest
    stand as if fettered._

MARTIUS. Professors, make ready!

    _The PROFESSORS quickly squat down, unfold little tables,
    lay upon each table a thick book, and open the covers with
    a clatter. The effect is something like the firing of a
    field-battery. The ROMAN (it is SCIPIO), waking up, apparently
    becomes interested and inquires in a friendly manner_: “What
    is the matter, gentlemen? What can I do for you? If this is a
    circus, I take the liberty to inform you that the Colosseum is
    not yet finished.”

MARTIUS. [_Calmly_] Silence, base kidnapper! [_To the SABINES_] And now,
Sabines, we have reached the wished-for goal. Behind us is the long path
of privation, hunger, solitude, and canned fruit. Before us a struggle
such as history has never known. Be inspired, Sabines, but control
yourselves; be tranquil. Maintaining a spirit of natural indignation,
calmly await the fated end. Recall, Sabines, why we have come here.

    _The SABINES are silent._

MARTIUS. Come, recall, gentlemen! We surely did not come here with these
huge books merely to take a walk! Come, recall, gentlemen. Why are we
here?

SCIPIO. Come, come, gentlemen, recall.

MARTIUS. [_To SCIPIO_] Just think of it, they’re always like that!

SCIPIO. You don’t mean it!

MARTIUS. It’s a fact. They stand like graven images. They can do nothing
but blink their eyes. Tell me, now— Can one deliver a first-class speech
without resorting to the exclamation “Recall, gentlemen”?

SCIPIO. [_Good-naturedly shaking his head_] Well, scarcely. It would be a
queer speech.

MARTIUS. There! Of course it would. Even you understand that, but as for
these fellows——

    _From the ranks of the SABINES comes a tremulous voice_: “Oh,
    Proserpina, my darling, where art thou? O-o-o-oh!”

SCIPIO. [_Puzzled_] He must be recalling.

MARTIUS. [_Contemptuously_] Oh, he is always recalling. [_To the
SABINES_] Attention! We are now going to make a peremptory demand for our
wives. Woe to the abductors if their conscience has not yet awakened! We
will have the law of them. Oh, base abductor; summon your base companions
and prepare for the dire penalty!

SCIPIO. I will call my wife at once.

    _He goes into the hut, calling_: “Cleopatra! Come out, please;
    some one wants to see you on business!”

    _PAULUS EMILIUS peeks from around the corner and, recognising
    the SABINES, shouts joyfully_: “The husbands have come! The
    husbands have come! Ancient Romans, wake up! The husbands are
    here!”

    _He rushes to MARTIUS and, with tears in his eyes, hangs upon
    his neck. MARTIUS is nonplussed. PAULUS hurries on, repeating
    the joyous cry_: “The husbands are here!”

    _The drowsy ROMANS crawl out of their huts and take up a
    position on the right side of the stage. MARTIUS, in a dramatic
    pose, haughtily waits until they are assembled._

THE FAT ROMAN. By Bacchus! I have had as delightful a sleep as on the day
we founded Rome. What’s that row of dummies?

FIRST ROMAN. Sh! That’s the husbands.

THE FAT ROMAN. Heavens, but I’m thirsty! Proserpina, my pet, bring me
some cider!

    _From the ranks of the SABINES comes a faint cry_: “Proserpina!
    O-o-o-oh!”

THE FAT ROMAN. What does he want? Is he, too, calling my wife?

FIRST ROMAN. Sh! That’s her husband.

THE FAT ROMAN. Oh, I forgot! Heavens, but I am thirsty! After that hot
porridge and a sound sleep I could drink a lake dry. And what porridge
Proserpina can make! Really, Romans, it is a gift of the gods!

FIRST ROMAN. Sh!

THE FAT ROMAN. The deuce, I forgot! But I had the queerest dream just
now. I thought I was asleep and suddenly I saw Rome beginning to fall,
fall, fall—and then it fell.

FIRST ROMAN. But how about our wives? Although they have callers, they do
not appear. It’s an awkward situation.

SECOND ROMAN. Probably they are dressing.

FIRST ROMAN. Oh, woman, thy name is vanity! One might expect them to say,
“Pooh! it’s only my late husband!” but no, they can’t escape the eternal
feminine. Really, the psychology of woman is beyond me!

THE FAT ROMAN. Heavens, but I am thirsty! How long are those Egyptian
mummies going to stand there? They have trumpets. They might at least
strike up a tune. Look! Look! They move!

MARTIUS. Romans, at last we stand face to face. I trust that, setting
aside all dissimulation, you will give us a direct and honest answer. Do
you recall, Romans, the deed you committed on the night between the 20th
and the 21st of April?

    _The ROMANS look at one another in embarrassed silence._

MARTIUS. Come, recall! Is it possible you cannot recall? Try to recall,
gentlemen. I assure you, I shall not stir a step until you recall.

THE FAT ROMAN. [_Terrified, whispers to another_] Maybe you can remember,
Agrippa? It must have been something important, huh?

    _Remarks by the ROMANS_: “No, I can’t remember anything.” “I
    must have lost my memory while I was asleep.” “I’d better go;
    you can tell me about it afterward.” “Really, what does he
    want?”

MARTIUS. [_In a loud voice_] Then I will remind you, Romans. On the night
between the 20th and 21st of April there was committed the greatest crime
known to history. Certain individuals—I will disclose their identity
later—villainously abducted our wives, the beautiful Sabine women.

    _The ROMANS, remembering, confirm the statement with joyful
    noddings of the head_: “Yes, yes, yes, yes!” “Ho! That’s what
    is on foot!” “Perfectly true. ’Twas the 20th of April.”

THE FAT ROMAN. [_Deeply impressed_] These Sabines have heads!

MARTIUS. And you were the abductors, Romans! Oh, I know you will attempt
to justify yourselves. You will distort the facts. You will basely
pervert the legal norms, taking refuge in that abominable casuistry which
is inevitably linked with every violation of right. But we are prepared.
Professors, begin!

    _The PROFESSOR at the end of the line begins speaking in a
    monotonous voice that seems to come from beyond the bounds of
    space and time_: “Concerning Crimes against Property; volume
    one, division one, chapter one, page one, entitled On the
    Subject of Robbery in General. In very ancient times, far more
    ancient than the present time, when birds, insects, and beetles
    fearlessly hopped about in the sunlight and no violations of
    justice entered into their consciousness, inasmuch as there was
    no consciousness—in those remote times——”

MARTIUS. Attention, Romans, attention!

SCIPIO. Can’t you make it shorter?

MARTIUS. Can’t be done.

SCIPIO. But your hearers will go to sleep.

MARTIUS. Do you think so?

SCIPIO. Why, as you see, they are already dozing, and when they are
dozing they don’t hear anything. Can’t you begin at the other end, eh?
Come, be so good as to say straight out what you want.

MARTIUS. In sooth, this is a strange argument! But be it so.
Condescending to the weakness of your friends, I will tell you directly
that we want to prove to you that you were wrong when you abducted our
wives, and that you Romans are abductors, and that by no subtleties of
sophistry will you succeed in justifying your base act! Even the heavens
will shudder!

SCIPIO. Really, really, my dear fellow, we don’t even deny it.

MARTIUS. You don’t? Then why have we come here?

SCIPIO. I don’t know. Perhaps you were out for a stroll.

MARTIUS. No, we came on purpose to prove these things to you. It’s very
odd. Then you agree that you are abductors?

SCIPIO. Unreservedly. And I find the word “abductors” very appropriate.

MARTIUS. But perhaps you are not thoroughly convinced of it? In that case
the professor is quite ready—Aren’t you, Professor? Are you not quite
ready to——

SCIPIO. Oh, no! You mustn’t. We are thoroughly convinced. Romans, back me
up or he will begin again!

ROMANS. Agreed, agreed!

MARTIUS. Well, then, what’s all this about?

SCIPIO. I don’t know.

MARTIUS. Here is a strange misunderstanding. Sabines, celebrate your
triumph! They confess their guilt. The mere appearance of our threatening
preparations has awakened in them the powerful voice of legal conscience,
and Heaven itself has shuddered. It only remains for us, in the
consciousness of having performed our duty, to return and——

A TREMBLING VOICE. But my Proserpina?

MARTIUS. Ah, yes! Inappropriate though your expression may be, you have
the right idea—quite right, my friend. Romans, here is a complete and
accurate list of the names of our wives. Be so kind as to return them
to us. For all loss, all damage—what’s the wording of your law there,
Professor?

PROFESSOR. Tare and tret.

MARTIUS. No, no! “Injury!” Yes, for every injury you will be held
responsible. Read the entire section, Professor. However—here are our
wives. Attention, Sabines! Maintain your self-control, I beseech you.
Restrain the outburst of passion until the question of justice is
settled—Two steps forward, one step backward! Halt! Greetings to you,
Sabine wives! Welcome, Cleopatra!

    _The WOMEN with eyes downcast and modest aspect, dignified and
    yet submissive, occupy the centre of the stage._

CLEOPATRA. [_Without raising her eyes_] If you have come to scold, Ancus
Martius, let me tell you that we do not deserve your reproaches. We
struggled long and did not yield except on compulsion. I swear to you,
beloved Martius, I have not for a single moment ceased to weep for you.

    _She weeps and, taking her cue, all the SABINE WOMEN weep._

MARTIUS. Calm yourself, Cleopatra. They have already confessed that they
are abductors. Let us now return to our household gods, Cleopatra.

CLEOPATRA. [_Without raising her eyes_] I fear that you will scold us,
but we have become accustomed to this location. Don’t you like these
hills, Martius?

MARTIUS. I don’t understand you, Cleopatra. What have the hills to do
with it?

CLEOPATRA. I fear you will be angry, but, really, we are not to blame.
I have already wept for you in due form, Martius, and now I cannot
understand at all what you want. More tears? Oh, as many as you like.
My dear friends, they think we have not wept enough for them. Let us
show them their error. Oh, weep, weep, my dear friends! I loved you so,
Martius!

    _The WOMEN shed rivers of tears._

SCIPIO. Calm yourself, Cleopatra. Excitement is bad for you now. And you,
sir, do you hear? Go back home. Come, Cleopatra, lie down and rest. I
will look after the soup myself.

MARTIUS. And what has the soup to do with it, I should like to know? Calm
yourself, Cleopatra, there is some misunderstanding here. Apparently you
do not understand that you are abducted.

CLEOPATRA. [_Weeping_] There, I told you you were going to scold! Scipio,
deary, have you my handkerchief?

SCIPIO. Here it is, precious.

MARTIUS. But I should like to know what the handkerchief has to do with
it.

CLEOPATRA. [_Weeping_] What a fuss to make about a handkerchief! I cannot
get on without a handkerchief when I am crying, and it is all your fault.
You are a cruel monster, Ancus Martius!

    _They all weep, SABINE WOMEN, SABINE MEN, and even several of
    the ROMANS._

THE VOICE. Proserpina! O-o-o-oh!

MARTIUS. [_In a sonorous voice_] Calm yourselves, Sabines. Control
yourselves. Don’t move; I’ll settle everything in a jiffy. There
apparently is some misunderstanding of a legal nature. This unhappy woman
thinks she is accused of stealing a handkerchief and does not even dream
that she herself is stolen. We will prove this to her. Professors, begin.

    _The PROFESSORS make preparations. The ROMANS are
    horror-stricken. SCIPIO seizes CLEOPATRA by the hand._

SCIPIO. Own up, Cleopatra! Come, be quick! Heavens, he will begin in a
moment!

CLEOPATRA. I have nothing to confess. It is all slander.

MARTIUS. Professor, we are waiting.

SCIPIO. Come, hurry, own up! Oh, Heavens, he is already opening his
mouth! He will have it open in a minute! Sabines! Wait! She has
confessed! Shut your mouth, Professor, she has confessed!

CLEOPATRA. Very well, I confess. [_To the WOMEN_] My dear friends, do you
confess, too?

SCIPIO. [_Hastily_] Yes, they all confess. Everything is all right.

MARTIUS. [_In perplexity_] One moment, sir, if you please. Cleopatra, do
you admit that you and the other Sabine women were abducted on the night
between the 20th and the 21st of April? Do you?

CLEOPATRA. [_Spitefully_] No, we ran away of ourselves.

MARTIUS. There, you see! She doesn’t understand. Mr. Profes——

CLEOPATRA. That’s mean of you, Martius. You overslept. You did not defend
us; you gave us up; you forgot us; you abandoned us; and now you accuse
us of running away. We were abducted, Martius, basely abducted. You can
read about it in any Roman history, to say nothing [_weeping_] of the
encyclopedia.

SCIPIO. [_Shouting_] Come, shut your mouth, Professor!

    _But the PROFESSOR’S mouth remains open. The ROMANS are thrown
    into a panic, and some rush off the stage._

MARTIUS. Romans, Sabines, attention! I will remove the difficulty in a
moment. There is some misunderstanding of a mechanical nature. Allow me
to inspect you, Professor. Why, to be sure. I might have known it. The
hinge is broken and he cannot shut his mouth. No matter. We will fix it
up when we get home. For the present it is enough that they admit they
were abducted. I have heard it with my own ears. Our goal is attained,
and Heaven itself has shuddered. Let us go back to our household gods,
Cleopatra.

CLEOPATRA. I don’t want to go back to our household gods.

THE SABINE WOMEN. Rubbish about your household gods! We don’t want to go
back to our household gods. We are going to stay here. They are insulting
us! They are getting ready to abduct us! Save us, help, defend us!

    _The ROMANS with clattering weapons take a position between the
    WOMEN and the SABINES and gradually crowd the WOMEN into the
    background. They cast angry glances at the SABINES._

VOICES. To arms, Romans! To the defence of your wives! To arms, Romans!

MARTIUS. [_Ringing his bell_] What is the matter? There will be a fight
here in a minute. My brain is in a whirl. Sabines, my brain is in a whirl.

PROSERPINA. [_Coming forward and speaking in a slow, calm voice_] Don’t
get excited, Romans, I will speak with Martius alone.

    _From the ranks of the SABINES comes a quavering voice, a
    mournful call of love_: “Proserpina, my darling, o-o-o-o-oh!”

PROSERPINA. [_Coolly_] Ah, my dove! How are you? Come here, Ancus
Martius, and don’t be afraid; your army won’t run away. Do you understand
that neither your wife, Cleopatra, nor we other Sabine women wish to go
home? Do you understand that?

MARTIUS. I am dazed. How can I live without Cleopatra? I cannot live
without Cleopatra! She is my perfectly legal wife. Do you think she won’t
come back on any terms?

PROSERPINA. Not on any terms.

MARTIUS. What am I to do? You see that I love her. How can I live without
her? [_He weeps._

PROSERPINA. Cheer up, Martius. [_She whispers_] I am sorry for you, and
I will tell you as a secret that there is only one means, one solitary
means left—abduct her!

MARTIUS. But will she come?

PROSERPINA. [_Shrugging her shoulders_] How can she help coming if you
abduct her?

MARTIUS. But that would be wicked. You are suggesting to me that I commit
violence. What would then become of my legal conscience, or can it be
that you women believe that might is right? Oh, woman, woman!

PROSERPINA. Oh, we have heard “Woman, woman!” before. It was a leaden day
when the gods made you, Martius. You are unutterably stupid. If I am to
remain faithful, I want a strong man, the strongest man there is. Do you
think we are so fond of being abducted and stolen, and asked back and
returned, and lost and found, and——

THE VOICE. Proserpina, my darling, o-o-o-oh!

PROSERPINA. Yes, my dear. How are you—? And to have people deal with us
as if we were things. I no sooner get accustomed to one man than along
comes another and carries me away, and I no sooner get accustomed to the
new man than the old one appears and says: “Come back.” Really, Martius,
if, as you protest, you want your wife to be your own, then all you have
to do is to be the strongest. Give in to no one, struggle for her tooth
and nail. In short, die in her defence. Believe me, Martius, there is no
greater joy for a woman than to die upon the grave of a husband who has
fallen in her defence. And be assured, Martius, that a woman proves false
only after her husband has proved false.

MARTIUS. But they have swords and we are weaponless.

PROSERPINA. Get swords!

MARTIUS. But they have strong muscles and we have not.

PROSERPINA. Get strong! Oh, Martius, you are an impenetrable fool!

MARTIUS. [_Springing away from her_] And you are a trifling and silly
woman. Long live the law! Let them take my wife from me by brute
violence; let them ruin my home; let them extinguish my hearth; I
shall never prove false to the law. Let the whole world laugh at the
unfortunate Sabines, they will not prove false to the law. Virtue
commands respect, even in rags. Sabines, retreat! Weep, Sabines, weep
bitter tears! Sob, beat your breasts, and be not ashamed of tears. Let
them stone us, let them mock us, but weep! Let them besmear us with mud!
Weep, Sabines; you are weeping for the scorned and down-trampled law.
Forward, Sabines. Attention! Trumpeters, strike up the march. Two steps
forward, one step backward; two steps forward, one step backward.

    _The WOMEN begin to weep._

CLEOPATRA. Martius, wait!

MARTIUS. Avaunt, woman, I know thee not! Slow march!

    _The trumpets set up a mournful wail. The WOMEN, weeping and
    wailing loudly, are drawn toward their former husbands, but
    the ROMANS hold them back by force. Laughter on the part of
    the victors. Paying no attention either to the tears or the
    laughter, but bending under the weight of the laws, the SABINES
    slowly withdraw; two steps forward, one step backward._




BIBLIOGRAPHY OF ANDREYEFF


I. EDITIONS OF COLLECTED WORKS

L. Andreev, Razskazy. Moskva, 1901. _Contains_: Bezdna, V podvalě, Směkh,
Stěna.

L. Andreev i S. S. Glagol′, Pod Vpechatleniem khudozhestvennago
teatra. Moskva, 1902. (_Published under the pseudonym_ “James Lynch.”)
_Contains_: Dissonans, Kogda my, mertvye, probuzhdaemsi͡a?; Tri sestry;
Dikai͡a utka; Esli zhizn′ ne udastsi͡a tebě, to udastsi͡a smert′; Li͡udi
teneboĭ storony.

L. Andreev, Razskasy i p′esy, vols. I-IV. Petrograd, Znanie Co.,
1906-1907.

L. Andreev, Sobranïe sochinenïĭ, vols. V-VII. Petrograd, Shipovnik Co.,
1909. _Supplement to the preceding edition; contains a portrait of A._

L. Andreeva i A. I. Kuprin, I͡Umoristicheskïe razskazy, 2 vols.
Petrograd, Kornfel′d, 1909.

L. Andreev, Sobranïe sochinenïĭ, vols. I-XIV. Petrograd, Prosvěshchenie
Co., 1911-18. _With a portrait of the author and an Introduction by
Professor Reisner. The most complete edition as yet published._

L. Andreev, Polnoe sobranïe sochinenïĭ. Prilozhenĭe “Nivě.” Petrograd,
1913.


II. CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF ANDREYEFF’S WRITINGS

NOTE.—In case special editions, translations, commentaries, or reviews of
separate works exist, they are indicated under the title of each work.
An * after a title indicates that a separate edition of the given work
is published by Ladyschnikow in Berlin. An Arabic numeral after a title
indicates that a translation of the given work is published in the volume
bearing that number in list III of this bibliography.


1898

Bargamot i Garas′ka.¹², ¹⁴

Zashchita: istorïi͡a odnago dni͡a. The Defence: One Day of My Life.

Iz zhizni shtabs-kapitana Kablukova.¹⁴ From the Life of Captain Kablukov.

Molodezh′. Youth.


1899

Pervyĭ gonorar. My First Fee.

Drug. A Friend.

U okna. At the Window.

Petka na dachě.¹³ Little Peter in the Country.

Vali͡a. Little Valia.

Mel′kom. An Incident.

Angelochek.¹³ The Little Wax Angel.

Bol′shoĭ shlem. A Grand Slam.


1900

_During the years 1900-1902_ Andreyeff _wrote the 22 sketches and 5
fragments published in_ I͡Umoristicheskïe razskazy. Petrograd, 1909. _The
titles of these are not included in this list._

Lozh′.¹, ² The Lie.

Na rěkě. On the River.

Prazdnik. A Holiday.

Razskaz (_or_ Pověst′) o Sergěě Petrovichě. The Story of Sergius
Petrovich.

Mat′. Mother.

Prekrasna zhizn′ dli͡a voskresshikh. Life is Beautiful for the
Resurrected.

    Life is so Beautiful for the Resurrected; trans. (_with
    prefatory note_) by Geo. E. Haendelmann, _in Current Lit._, 49
    (1910): 344-5.

Molchanïe.², ¹² Silence.

    Silence; trans. from the Russian by J. Cournos. 2d ed.
    (Modern Authors’ Series.) Philadelphia, 1910. _Reviewed in:
    Independent_, 65: 615; _Nation_, 87: 494.

    Silence; _trans. with Introductory Note entitled: The Apostle
    of the Terrible, in Lippincott’s_, 90 (Aug. 12, 1912): 235-51.

V temnui͡u dal′. In the Dim Distance.


1901

Směkh.² Laughter.

Gostinets.¹⁴ A Gift.

Zhili-byli.² Once upon a Time. _Discussed in_: _Birzh. Věd._, April 9,
1901 (A. Izmaĭlov).

Kusaka.¹³, ¹⁴ A Homeless Cur.

Kniga. The Book.

Stěna. The Wall.

Sluchaĭ. An Incident.

Nabat.¹³ The Alarm.

    L’Epouvante; trad. du russe par T. de Wyzewa et S. Persky.
    Paris, 1903.

V podvalě.⁵, ¹² In a Basement.

Im Erdgeschoss und Anderes. Berlin, 1903.


1902

Bezdna.⁹ The Abyss.

    Bezdna, s stat′eĭ L. Tolstogo i polemicheakoĭ literaturoĭ.
    Berlin, 1903.

    Le Gouffre; trad. du russe par S. Persky. Paris, 1903.

    B. Rebikov _has composed an opera on the basis of_ “Bezdna.”

Vesnoĭ. In Spring.

Gorod. The City.

Mysl′.⁴ Thought.

    A Dilemma: A Story of Mental Perplexity; trans. from the
    Russian by J. Cournos. Philadelphia, 1909. _Reviewed in: Review
    of Rev._, 42: 123; _Independent_, 69: 705.

    _Discussed in_: _Pravda_, 1904 (A. Vol′skïĭ). _See also_: A.
    i͡anishevskïĭ, Geroĭ razskaza “Mysl′,” Kazan, 1903.

Original′nyĭ chelověk. An Original Character.

Inostranets.³, ¹⁴ The Stranger.

V tumaně.⁶ In the Fog.

    Im Nebel, Erzählung. (Russ. Text.) Berlin, Steinets, 1903.

    Im Nebel; übersetzt von S. Wermer. Vienna, 1903. (Bibliotek
    berühmter Authoren.)

    Im Nebel; aus dem Russ. von L. A. Hauff. Berlin, 1905.

    _Discussed in_: _Obr._, 1903 (A. Boktrom); _Pravda_, 1904 (A.
    Vol′skïĭ). _See also_: Ieromonakh Mikhail, Otsam i děti͡am.
    Moskva, 1904.

Predstoi͡ala krazha.¹² A Burglary was Planned.

    The Burglar; trans. from the Russ. by Thomas Seltzer, _in
    Current Lit._, 39: 109-111.


1903

Iz moeĭ zhizni. From My Life.

Marsel′eza. The Marseillaise.

Vesennïi͡a oběshchanïi͡a.⁹ The Promise of Spring.

Na Stantsïi.¹⁴ At a Way Station.

Ben-Tovit. Ben Tobit.

Zhizn′ o. Basili͡a Fiveĭskago.* The Life of Father Fiveiski.

    Zhizn′ ... (Russian Text). Munich, Etzold & Co., 1904.

    Das Leben Vater Wassili Fiweiskis; Deutsch von G. Polonski.
    Berlin, 1906.

    _French transl._, _see under_ Razskaz o semi....

    _Discussed in_: _Obr._, 1904, No. 5 (N. Asheshev); _Rus′_, 1904
    (V. Botsi͡anovskïĭ); _Golos I͡Uga_, Dec. 14, 1904 (Volshskïĭ);
    _Odessk. Nov._, July 20, 1904 (I. Gekker); _Věst. Evropy_,
    1904 (Evg. L); _Věsy_, 1904, No. 5 (Ivanov Vi͡acheslav).

    Son o. Vas. Fiv.: neizdannyĭ otryvok iz “Zhizn′ o. V. F.”
    Father Basil’s Dream: An Unpublished Fragment from “The Life
    of....”


1904

Nět proshchenii͡a. It Cannot be Pardoned.

Vor. The Thief.

    _Discussed in_: _I͡Uzhn. Zap._, April 17, 1905 (Th.
    Bati͡ushkov).

Prizraki. Phantoms.

    _Discussed in_: _Obr._, 1905, No. 3 (V. L′vov).

Krasnyĭ Směkh: otryvki iz naidennago rukopisi.* The Red Laugh: Fragments
of a Discovered Manuscript.

    Das Rothe Lachen; aus dem Russ. von A. Scholz. Berlin, 1905.

    The Red Laugh. Fragments of a Discovered Manuscript; trans.
    from the Russ. by Alexandra Linden. London, 1905.

    Le Rire Rouge. La Guerre en Mandchourie; trad. du russe par S.
    Persky. Paris, 1905.

    _Discussed in_: _Independent_, 58 (May 11, 1905): 1043-46
    (Sophie Witte); _Nizh. List._, 1905 (Ch. Vetrinskïĭ); _Obr._,
    1905, No. 3 (V. L′vov); _Obraz._, 1905, No. 10 (O. Mirtov).


1905

Gubernator.*, ¹⁴, ¹⁶ The Governor.

    His Excellency, the Governor; trans. by ——. _Illustrated by_ G.
    W. Peters, _in Harper’s Weekly_, 51 (1907): 196-198, 236-239,
    270-275, 310-313.

    Der Gouverneur: Novelle; übersetzt von Aug. Scholz. Berlin,
    1906. _Also contains_ Tak bylo.

    Le Gouverneur; trad. de J. Ferenczy. Paris, 1909.

Tak bylo.* Thus It Was.

    _See_ Der Gouverneur; übersetzt von Scholz.

K svězdam.* To the Stars.

    Zu den Sternen; Deutsch von Aug. Scholz. Berlin, 1906.
    _Reviewed in: Der Türmer_ (Stuttgart), March, 1906, pp. 862-864
    (F. Poppenberg).

    To the Stars; trans. by A. Goudiss, _in Poet Lore_, Winter No.,
    1907.

    _Plot outlined in Current Lit._, 40 (March, 1906): 312.

    _Discussed in_: _Str._, May, 1906 (E. Anichkov); _Mïr Bozh._,
    1906, No. 7 (Th. Bati͡ushkov); _Nov. Slovo_, Jan., 1910 (A.
    Izmaĭlov); _I͡Uzh. Kraĭ_, Nov. 1, 1906 (N. Karavaev); _Ros._,
    No. 464, 1907 (N. Lnd.).

Khristïane.* Christians.

    Christen: Novelle. (_Russ. Text._) Stuttgart, 1905.


1906

Savva.* Savva.

    Ignis Sanat (Savva): Drama; Deutsch von O. D. Potthof. Berlin,
    1906.

    Savva and the Life of Man; trans. with an Introduction by T.
    Seltzer. New York, 1914.

    _Reviewed in: Ind._, 79 (July 13, 1914): 72.

    _Discussed in_: _Rus′_, Oct., 1908 (V. Botsi͡anovskïĭ); _Rus′_,
    1907, No. 182 (A. Legri); _Obr._, 1906, No. 11 (A. Smirnov).

Eleazar.*, ¹¹, ¹⁴ Lazarus.

    _Trans. in Current Lit._, 42 (May, 1907): 577-584.

    _Discussed in_: _Zakavk._, 1907, No. 136 (N. Derzhavin);
    _Obraz._, 1907, No. 3 (V. L′vov); _Sovr. Mïr_, 1907, Nos. 7,
    8 (Evg. Li͡atskïĭ); _Rus′_, 1906, No. 47 (M. Voloshin). _See
    also_: Valentinov, N., My eshche pridem. Moskva, 1908.

Zhizn′ Chelověka: Predstavlenïe v pi͡ati kartinakh s prologom.* The Life
of Man: A Drama in Five Scenes with a Prolog.

    _Abstract by_ M. Baring, _in Oxford and Camb. Rev._, 1908,
    No. 4, pp. 46-59; _reprinted in Litt. Liv. Age_, 258 (1908):
    786-792.

    Das Leben des Menschen; Deutsch von Aug. Scholz. Berlin, 1908.

    _Trans. by_ Seltzer. _See above under_ “Savva.”

    _Discussed in_: _Russ. Bogat._, 1907, No. 7 (A. E. R.); _Stol.
    Utr._, 1907, Nos. 11, 12 (V. Arnol′d); _Věsy_, 1908, No. 1
    (Avrelïĭ); _Mosk. Věd._, July 14, 1908 (Basargin); _Slovo_,
    Dec. 19, 1907 (P. Boborykin); _Novoe Vremi͡a_, Aug. 24, 1907
    (V. Burenin); _Liter-khud. Neděli͡a_, Sept. 17, 1907 (Andreĭ
    Bělyĭ); _Mosk. Věd._, 1907 (Ben); _Sovr. Mïr_, 1909, No. 11,
    p. 65 (N. Efros); _Rěch′_, April 2, 1908 (D. V. Filosofov);
    _Věsy_, 1907, No. 5 (Anton Kraĭnnïĭ = Z. Gippius); _Slovo_,
    April 30, 1907 (L. Gurevich); _Russ. Slovo_, March 6, 1907
    (V. Doroshevich); _Golos Pravdy_, 1907, No. 531 (Literaturnyĭ
    Starověr); _Obraz._, 1907, No. 3 (V. L′vov); _Sbornik
    Zarnitza_, 1909, No. 2, Pt. I (Ovsi͡aniko-Kulikovskïĭ); _Russ.
    Zn._, April 20, 1907 (Rynda); _Birzh. Věd._, April 7, 1907
    (“S”); _Kiev. Gazeta_, 1907, No. 92 (“S”); _Volga_, Jan. 28,
    1908 (Sergěĭ Glagol′); _Sěver_ (Vologda), July 27, 1907 (L.
    T-tskïĭ); _Rus′_, Feb., 1907 (M. Voloshin).


1907

Iuda Iskariot i drugïe.*, ¹¹, ¹⁴ Judas Iscariot and the Others.

    Judas Iscariot and the Others; trans. into English by Archibald
    J. Wolfe, _in Sewanee Rev._, April, 1908. _Reviewed in: Current
    Lit._, 44 (April, 1908): 401-404.

    Judas Iscariot; trans. by W. J. Lowe. London, 1910.

    _Discussed in_: _Věsy_, 1907, No. 7 (Anton Kraĭnnïĭ = Z.
    Gippius); _Věk_, Feb. 17, 1907 (S. Askol′dov); _Svobod. Mysl′_,
    1908, No. 1 (Chukovski); _Russ. Věd._, 1907, No. 106 (“I.”);
    _Sovr. Mïr_, 1907, Nos. 7, 8 (Evg. Li͡atskïĭ); _Nasha Gazeta_,
    Jan., 1908 (N. Minskïĭ); _Novoe Vremi͡a_, July, 1907 (V.
    Rozanov); _Russ. Zn._, July 15, 1907 (A. Trishatnyĭ); _Slovo_,
    June 1, 1907 (D. Shestakov); _Rus′_, July, 1907 (M. Voloshin).
    _See also_: L. Burgov, Pověst′ L. A. “Iud. Isk. i dr.,”
    Kharkov, 1911; N. Valentinov, My eshche pridem, Moskva, 1908.

T′ma.*, ⁸ Darkness.

    Der Spion; aus dem Russ, von S. Wermer. Vienna, Wiener, 1905.

    _Discussed in_: _Odess. Nov._, Dec. 2, 1907 (I. Gekker);
    _Věsy_, 1908, No. 2 (Anton Kraĭnnïĭ = Z. Gippius); _Tovar._,
    Dec. 2, 1907 (A. Kornfel′d); _Russ. Věd._, Dec. 1, 1907 (“I.”);
    _Golos Pravdy_, Jan. 11, 1908 (Literaturnyĭ Starověr); _Nasha
    Gazeta_, March, 1908 (N. Minskïĭ); _Slovo_, Nov. 30, 1907
    (Neblagosklonnyĭ Chitatel′); _Nash Den′_, 1908, No. 13 (G.
    Polonskïĭ); _Novoe Vremi͡a_, 1907 (V. Rozanov). _See also_: E.
    Anichkov, Literaturnye obrazy i mněnïi͡a, Petrograd, 1907; A.
    Kornfel′d, Knigi i li͡udi, Petrograd, 1908.

Proklatïe Zvěri͡a.* The Curse of the Beast.

    _Discussed in_: _Kiev. M._, March 11, 1908 (A. Achkasov);
    _Nasha Gazeta_, March, 1908 (N. Minskïĭ). _See also_: B.
    Lebedev, Proklatïe zvěri͡a, Petrograd, 1908.

Tsar′ Golod.* King Hunger.

    Tsar′ Golod: predstavlenïe v pi͡ati kartinakh s prologom.
    Risunki E. Landsere. Petrograd, 1908.

    King Hunger; trans. by Eugene M. Kayden, _in Poet Lore_, Winter
    No., 1911.

    _Discussed in_: _Russ. Mys._, 1908, No. 3 (I͡U. Aĭkhenwal′d);
    _Rul′_, March 9, 1908 (A. Vergezhskïĭ); _Sbornik_ “_Literat.
    Raspad_,” 1908 (Lunacharskïĭ); _Nash Den′_, 1908, No. 16 (G.
    Polonskïĭ). _See also_: N. Valentinov, My eshche Pridem,
    Moskva, 1908.


1908

Smert Chelověka: novyĭ variant pi͡atoĭ kartiny “Zhizni chelověka.” (_With
a prefatory note by the author._) The Death of Man: A variation of the
fifth act of the “Life of Man.”

Razskaz o semi pověshennykh.* The Story of the Seven Who were Hanged.
(_In some editions a dedication to Leo Tolstoi is added._)

    Die Geschichte der Sieben Gehenkten; übersetzt von Aug. Scholz.
    Berlin, 1908.

    The Seven Who were Hanged: A Story; authorized trans. from the
    Russian by Herman Bernstein. New York, 1909.

    The Seven Who were Hanged; trans. by Edwin C. Walker. (Tucker
    Series.) New York, 1909.

    Same. London, 1909.

    Die Geschichte der Sieben Gehenkten: Novelle, mit der
    Selbstbiographie des Verfassers; übersetzt von Lully Wiebeck.
    2d ed. Munich, 1909.

    Les Sept Pendus: L’histoire d’un pope; trad. de S. Persky en
    collaboration avec A. Tauchard. Paris, 1909.

    _Discussed in_: _Grazhdan._, July 22, 1908 (Vol′nyĭ); _Sovr.
    Mïr_, 1908, No. 4 (V. Kranikhfel′d); _Rěch′_, July 19, 1908
    (D. Merezhkovskïĭ); _Nov. Slovo_, 1909, No. 2 (Smolenskïĭ);
    _Slovo_, May 18, 1908 (G. Chulkov).

Iz razskaza, kotoryĭ nikogda ne budet okonchen. A Story that will Never
be Finished: A Fragment.

    A Story which will Never be Finished; trans. by Herman
    Bernstein with a Brief Biographical Sketch, _in Independent_,
    65 (Nov., 1908): 1031-34.

Chernyi͡a Maski.* The Black Maskers.

    _Discussed in_: _Rěch′_, Dec. 7, 1909 (L. Andreev). _See also_:
    S. Strumilin, Aristocratïi͡a dukha i profany. Petrograd, 1910.

Velikan. The Giant.

Dni nasheĭ zhizni.* Days of Our Life.

    Studentenliebe: Drama in Fünf Aufzügen; Deutsch von Karl
    Ritter. Berlin, 1909.

    Iz strany (A song from act I of “Days of O. L.”). Petrograd,
    1910.

    _Discussed in_: _Novoe Vremi͡a_, Nov. 6, 1908 (I͡U. Běli͡aev);
    _Der Kunstwart_, Jan. 24, 1911 (F. Düsel); _Slovo_, 1909, No.
    811 (Gr. Petrov); _Birzh. Věd._, Nov. 6, 1908 (A. Izmaĭlov);
    _Rěch′_, Dec. 6, 1908, No. 299 (A. Kosorotov)

Li͡ubov′ k blizhnemu.* Love for One’s Neighbor.

    Love of One’s Neighbor; trans. by Thomas Seltzer. New York,
    1914.

    In _Rěch′_, No. 85, Andreyeff calls attention to the fact that
    a certain “K.,” in his volume of “Miscellanies,” had published
    this story (first published in the _Gazeta Kur′era_) without
    complying with Andreyeff’s conditions to date it and state that
    it was _reprinted_. Andreyeff adds that “K.” also plagiarized
    two other stories.

Li͡ubov′, věra, nadezhda: Eti͡ud. Love, Faith and Hope.

Moi zapiski: pověst′.* My Memoirs.

    _Discussed in_: _Mïr_, 1909, No. 4 (K. Arabazhin); _Russ.
    Bogat._, 1909, No. 1 (A. Kornfel′d); _Russ. Slovo_, Oct. 11,
    1908 (A. i͡ablonovskïĭ); _Rěch′_, 1908, No. 278 (D. Levin);
    _Vecher_, Oct. 16, 1908 (V. Morov). _See also_: A. Al′man, Moi
    zapiski, Saratov, 1908.

Derzhite vora. Stop, Thief!

Lětushchai͡a mysh′. The Bat. (A Farce.)

Kli͡atva. The Oath.

    Trans. into Lettish. Riga, 1908.


1909

Syn chelověcheskïĭ: razskaz.* A Son of Man.

Anfisa.* Anfisa.

    _Discussed in_: _Rěch′_, 1909, No. 280 (VI. Azov); _Rěch′_,
    1909, Nos. 296, 335.

Anatema: Tragedïi͡a.* Anatema: A Tragedy.

    Anatema: A Tragedy in Seven Scenes; authorized trans. by Herman
    Bernstein. New York, 1910.

    _Reviewed in: Nation_, 91 (Oct. 27, 1910): 397; _The Dial_,
    49 (1910): 523 (Richard Burton); _N. Y. Times_, 16 (Jan. 29,
    1911): 43; _N. Amer. Rev._, 194 (1911): 882-887 (O. R. Howard
    Thompson, _under the title_: “Andreyev’s Anatema and the Faust
    Legend”).

    _A parody entitled_ “Anatema Andeĭ Leonidov” _was staged in the
    Ekaterinskïĭ Theatre in Petrograd in 1910._

    Anatema: Ein tragischer Spiel in Sieben Bildern; Deutsch von
    Karl Ritter. Berlin, 1911.

    _Discussed in_: _Rěch′_, 1909, No. 328 (Vl. Azov); _Novoe
    Vremi͡a_, 1909, Nov. 29 (I͡U. B.); _Russ. Mysl′_, 1909,
    No. 12 (L. Gurevich); _Russ. Mysl′_, 1909, No. 1 (A.
    Kizevetter); _Sovrem. Mïr_, 1910, No. 1 (V. Kranikhfel′d);
    _Rěch′_, 1911, No. 254 (M. B.); _Rěch′_, 1909, No. 352
    (Ovsi͡aniko-Kulikovskïĭ); _Russ. Bogat._, 1909, No. 12 (A.
    Rědko); _Rěch′_, Oct., 1909 (N. Efros); _Rěch′_, 1909, Nos.
    324, 325. _See also_: L. Bri͡antsev, Idei͡a tragedïi L.
    Andreeva “Anatema” i ei͡a razvitïe, Kharkov, 1910; K. Fisher,
    “Anatema” v. postanovskě Mosk. khudozh. teatra, Moscow, 1910;
    I. V. Churinov, “Tragedïi͡a Mysli” po povodu “Anatemy” L.
    Andreeva, Petrograd, 1910.


1910

“Gaudeamus”: Komedïi͡a v chetyrekh děĭstvïi͡akh.* “Gaudeamus”: A Comedy
in Four Acts.

    Gaudeamus: Komödie in 4 Akten. (_In russ. Sprache._) Berlin,
    Bong & Co., 1910.

    L. Gebek _published (1910) a waltz composed for this drama._

    _Discussed in_: _Rěch′_, 1910, No. 256 (Vl. Azov).

Iskrennïĭ Směkh: razskaz veselago chelověka. A Real Laugh: The Story of a
Jolly Man.

Den′ gněva: razskaz. Dies Irae: A Tale.

Razskaz zmeĭ o tom, kak poi͡avilis′ u nei͡a i͡adovitye zuby. A Snake’s
Story of how She got Her Poisoned Teeth.

NOTE.—On Oct. 31, 1910, Andreyeff published in several Petrograd papers
an open letter in which he announced that he had been forbidden to
publish any further works during the academic year 1910-1911.


1911

Pokoĭ. Rest.

Smert′ Gullivera (poslě smerti L. N. Tolstogo). The Death of Gulliver (On
the Death of Leo Tolstoi).

Ipatov. Ipatov.

Okean. The Ocean.

    Okean: tragedïi͡a v 7mi kartinakh s risunkami B. Anisfel′da.
    Petrograd, 1911.

    Der Ocean: Tragödie. (_In russ. Sprache._) Berlin, Bong & Co.,
    1911.

    _Discussed in_: _Rěch′_, 1910, No. 265 (S. Li͡ubosh—_contains
    Andreev’s interpretation of the drama_); _Russ. Bogats._, 1911,
    No. 5 (A. Rědko); _Rěch′_, 1911, No. 77 (Chukovskïĭ).

Sashka Zhigulov:* roman v 2 chasti͡akh. Alec Zhigulov: A Novel in Two
Parts.

    Ssaschka Shigulov: Roman in 2 Teilen. (_In russ. Sprache._)
    Berlin, Bong & Co., 1911.

    _Discussed in_: _Rěch′_, 1912, No. 7 (I͡Ur. Aĭkhenval′d).

Skazochki ne sovsěm dli͡a děteĭ: Orěshek, Negodaĭ, Fal′shivyĭ rubl′ i
dobryĭ di͡adi͡a.

    Tales not exclusively for Children: The Nut, The Rascal, The
    Counterfeit Ruble and the Goodnatured Uncle.


1912

Prekrasnyi͡a Sabini͡anki: istoricheskoe proisshestvïe v trekh chastiakh.*
The Beautiful Sabine Women: An Historical Event in Three Parts.

    The Lovely Sabine Women; trans. from the Russian by Thomas
    Seltzer, _in The Drama_, Feb., 1914.

Chest′ (Staryĭ Graf): Drama-parodïi͡a. Honor (The Old Count): A Dramatic
Parody.

Preface to the Russian translation of Jack London’s Works. Petrograd,
1912.

Ekaterina Ivanovna.* Catherine Ivanovna.

Professor Storitsyn.* Professor Storitsyn.

    _Discussed in_: _Peterb. Gaz._, 1912, No. 345.


1913-1914

Pis′ma o teatrě. (Two) Letters on the Theatre.

Ne ubïĭ: drama.* Do not kill: A Drama.

Mysl′: drama:* Thought: A Drama.

Nadsmertnoe.* Beyond Death.

Vozvrat.* The Return.

Proisshestvïe.* An Event. (_A dramatic scene._)

Popugaĭ: simvolicheskoe predstavlenïe v odnom děĭstvïi. The Parrot: A
Symbolic Drama in one Act.

_An interview giving Andreev’s views on the effects which the present war
will have on the government of Russia was published on_ Sept. 16 _in the
London Daily Chronicle and the New York Times._

_In December, 1914, the Alexandrinskïĭ Theatre presented Andreev’s latest
drama_, Karol′, Zakon i Svoboda, _dealing with the Belgian situation._

    A Tragedy of Belgium; Act IV; trans. by Herman Bernstein, _in
    New York Sun_, Dec. 20, 1914.


III. TRANSLATIONS, CONTAINING TWO OR MORE DIFFERENT WORKS IN THE SAME
VOLUME

1. Die Lüge. Ausgewählte Erzählungen. Deutsch von N. Hornstein. Dresden,
H. Minden, 1902.

    _Reviewed in: Litt. Echo_, No. 5.

2. Novellen. Deutsch von Stefania Goldenring. Berlin, Neufeld & Henius,
1902.

    _Contains_: Zhili-byli, Molchanïe, Směkh, Lozh′, Bezdna,
    Vali͡a, Petka na dachě, Bol′shoĭ shlem, Nabat.

3. Der Ausländer und andere Geschichten. Deutsch von Anna Lubinov.
Berlin, Steinetz, 1903.

4. Gedanke und andere Novellen. Aus dem Russischen von Eliz. und Jorik
Georg. Munich, A. Langen, 1903.

5. Im Erdgeschoss und Anderes. Berlin, Globus Verl., 1903.

6. Im Nebel und andere Novellen. Aus dem Russischen von Eliz. und Jorik
Georg. Stuttgart, Deut. Verl.-Anst., 1903.

    _Reviewed in: Litt. Echo_, 1903, No. 5, p. 1036.

7. Novellen. Aus dem Russischen von Alexis von Krusenstjerna. Leipzig,
1903.

8. Der Spion. Aus dem Russischen von S. Wermer. Wien, Wiener, 1903.

9. Der Abgrund und andere Novellen. Deutsch von Th. Kroczek. Halle, 1905.

10. M. Gorki, M. Weressajeff, L. Andrejew, Jung Russland. Neue Novellen.
Aus dem Russ. (= Internal. Novel.-Bibl., No. 13). Berlin, Globus Verl.,
1904.

11. Judas Ischariot und die Anderen und Lazarus. Übersetzt von Otto Bük.
Berlin, Ladyschnikow, 1908.

12. Frühlingsversprechen und andere Geschichten. Autorizierte Übersetzung
von Sonja Wermer. Leipzig, Wiener, 1908.

13. Silence and Other Stories. Trans. from the Russ. by W. H. Lowe.
London, Griffith, 1908.

    _Contains_: Petka na dachě, Angelochek, Molchanïe, Kusaka,
    Nabat, V podvalě.

14. Nouvelles. Traduites du russe par Serge Persky. Paris, 1908.

    _Contains_: Le Gouverneur, Kusaka, Zhizn′ shtabskapitan
    Kablukova, Inostranets, Bargamot i Garas′ka, Gostinets, Na
    stantzïi, Prekrasna Zhizn′....

15. Judas Ischariot und Lazarus. Deutsch von R. Meckelein. Berlin, 1909.

16. Korolenko, Le musicien aveugle. Le Gouverneur, etc., par Leonid
Andreief. Trad. de J. Ferenczy. Paris, Ferenczy, 1909.

17. Savva and The Life of Man. Trans. with an introd. by T. Seltzer. New
York, Kennerley, 1914.

18. Der Gouverneur; übersetzt von Aug. Scholz. Berlin, 1906.


IV. BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL BOOKS, ESSAYS, ETC., ON ANDREYEFF


A. BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS

Arabazhin, K., L. Andreev. Itogi tvorchestva. Petrograd, 1910.

Baranov, N. P., L. Andreev kak khudozhnik, psikholog i myslitel′. Kiev,
1907.

Botsi͡anovskïĭ, V., L. Andreev. Kritiko-bïograficheskïĭ eti͡ud.
Petrograd, 1904.

Brusi͡anin, V. V., L. Andreev. Zhizn′ i tvorchestvo. Moscow, 1912.

Chukovskïĭ, K., Leonid Andreev bol′shoĭ i malen′kïĭ. Petrograd, 1908.

Chukovskïĭ, K., O Leonidě Andreevě. Petrograd, 1911.

Churinov, I., Tragedïi͡a Mysli. Petrograd, 1910.

Dobrokhotov, A., Kar′era L. Andreeva. Moscow, 1909.

Etinger, E., Někto v sěrom i někto v krasnom u L. Andreeva. Kiev, 1908.

Friche, W., L. Andreev. Opyt kharakteristiki. Moscow, 1909.

Ganzhulevich, T., Russkai͡a zhizn′ i ei͡a techenïe v tvorchestvě L. A-a.
2d ed. Petrograd, 1908.

Ivanov, P., Vagram L. Andreeva! Psikhologicheskïĭ eti͡ud. Moscow, 1904.

M. K., Leonid Andreev. S bïografïeĭ i portretom. Moscow, 1906.

Muromtsev, Dr. M., Psikhopaticheskïe cherty v geroi͡akh L. Andreeva.
Petrograd, 1910.

Orlovskïĭ, Iz istorïi nověĭsheĭ russkoĭ literatury. Petrograd, 1910.

Reisner, Prof. M. A., L. Andreev i ego sotsi͡alnai͡a ideologïi͡a.
Petrograd, 1909.

Smolenskïĭ, N., Zashchitnikam L. Andreeva. Moscow, 1909.

Stomi͡arov-Sukhanov, Simvolizm i L. Andreev kak ego predstavitel′. Kiev,
1903.

Urusov, kn. H. Bezsil′nye li͡udi v izobrazhenïe L. Andreeva. Petrograd,
1903.

Varton, V., L. N. Tolstoĭ i L. Andreev. Baku, 1909.

Zhurakovskïĭ, E., Simptomy literaturnoĭ evolutsïĭ. Moscow, 1903.

Zhurakovskïĭ, E., Tragikomedĭi͡a sovremennoĭ zhizni. Moscow, 1907.


B. ARTICLES CONTAINED IN BOOKS, MAGAZINES, ETC.

Aleksandrov, P., Maksim Gorkïĭ i L. Andreev. Ikh zhizn′ i proizvedenïi͡a.
Riga, 1903.

Aleksandrovich, I͡U., Poslě Chekhova. Moscow, 1908, 236-289.

Andreev, Autobiography, _in Zhur. dli͡a Vsěkh_, Jan., 1903.

_Anonymous_, _see Current Lit._, 45 (Sept., 1908): 182-286; _Samar.
Gazeta_, Feb., 1902.

Antid-Oto, _in Vostoch. Obozr._, June, 1902; Lv. Aurich, _in Das Wissen
für Alle_, 1912, No. 47; Balte, F. M., _in Morgen_ (Berlin), 1908, No.
47; _Allg. Zeitung_, Oct. 4, 1909; Avrelïĭ, _in Věsy_, 1908, No. 1.

B(ogdanovich), A., _in Mïr Bozhïĭ_, 1901, No. 11; Abramov, IA., and
Granitov, _in Prïaz. Kraĭ_, Jan. and Sept., 1902; boreĭ, a satirical poem
on A., _in Novoe Vremi͡a_, Nov. 28, 1909; Botsi͡anovskïĭ, V., Bogobortsy.
Petrograd, 1911. Botsi͡anovskïĭ, V., _in Lit. Věstn._, Jan., 1902;
Brückner, A., Geschichte der russ. Lit. (Leipzig, 1905), pp. 501 _f._;
Bruck, R., _in Masken_, 1908; Burenin, V., _in Novoe Vremi͡a_, Jan.,
1902; Chagovets, V., _in Kïevsk. Gaz._, Nov., 1903; Chukovskïĭ, K., _in
Rěch′_, 1911, No. 85.

Fidler, F. F., Pervye literatur. shagi. Moscow, 1911, pp. 27-31.

Goldenring, St., _in Norddeut. Allg. Zeit._ (Berlin), No. 260.

Ivanov-Razumnik, O symslě zhizni (Petrograd, 1908) _and_ Tvorchestvo i
kritika (Petrograd, 1911).

Izmaĭlov, A., Literatur. Olimp. (Petrograd, 1911); _same, in Birzh.
Věd._, April 9, 1901.

Kogan, P., Ocherki po istorïi nověĭsheĭ russ. lit., vol. I, pt. 2, pp.
1-61.

Kube, O., Koshmary Zhizni. Petrograd, 1909.

Lavretsky, I., _in Independent_, 67 (July 29, 1909): 242-245; Linden,
S., _in Indep. Rev._, 8 (Feb., 1907): 215-227; Lolo, _in Novosti Dni͡a_,
May, 1907; Lunacharskïĭ, _in Sbornik_ “_Literaturn. Raspad_” (Petrograd,
1908); L′vov, V., _in Odessk. Novosti_, 1903; Merezhkovskïĭ, D. S.,
_in Svobod. Mysl′_, Jan., 1908, _and in Russk. Mysl′_, Jan., 1908;
Mikhaĭlovskïĭ, N. K., _in Russk. Bogat._, 1901, No. 11.

Morozov, M., Ocherki nověĭsheĭ lit. Petrograd, 1911, pp. 1-70.

Nevědomskïĭ, V., _in Sovremennyĭ Mïr_, 1908, No. 2; Obolenskïĭ, _in
Odessk. Listok_, April, 1902.

Persky, Serge, Les Maîtres du Roman Russe Contemporain. Paris, 1912, pp.
245-285.

Phelps, Wm. L., Essays on Russian Novelists. New York, 1911, pp. 262-277.

Pil′skïĭ, P., O L. Andreevě, Sologubě, Kuprině, etc. Petrograd, 1909.

P-ïĭ, P., _in Sovrem. Mïr_, April, 1908; Protopopov, M. A., _in_ _Russ.
Mysl′_, 1902, No. 3; Rodef, _in Wiener Fremdenblatt_, June 6, 1903;
Rozanov, V. V., _in Novoe Vremi͡a_, June 2, 1903; Sarakhanov, K., _in
Sarat. List._, April, 1904; Scholz, A., _in Zeit_ (Vienna), 1906, No.
411; Seltzer, Th., _in The Drama_, Feb., 1914; Shuli͡atikov, V., _in
Mosk. Kur′er_, Oct. 9, 1901; Simchowitz, _in Die Kultur_, March, 1903;
_same, in Landeszeitung_; _Beiblatt. Badisch. Mus._, 1903, No. 23;
Skabichevskïĭ, A. M., _in Novosti_, Jan., 1902; L. N. Tolstoĭ, _in
Sbornik Italïi͡a_, 1909; Wolshsky, N., _in Nation_ (Berlin), 1903, No.
50; _same, in Die Zeit_ (Berlin), 1903, No. 50; Wyzewa, T. de, _in Rev.
d. deux Mondes_, May 15, 1909.

⁂ Additional references to articles in the Russian periodical press
treating Andreyeff’s literary work as a whole and also dealing with the
following separate works: Bezdna, V tumaně, Zhizn′ Vas. Fiv., Krasnyĭ
směkh, K zvězdam, Savva, Tak bylo, Vor, Gubernator, Ïuda Iskarïot, Zhizn′
chelověka, T′ma, Tsar′ Golod, Razskaz o semi pověshennykh, Moi zapiski,
Chernyi͡a maski, Anfisa, Gaudeamus, Anatema, Prekrasnyi͡a Sabini͡anki,
Professor Storitsyn, Ekaterina Ivanovna and Pis′ma o teatrě, will be
found in

V. L′vov-Rogachevskïĭ, Dvě pravdy: Khiga o Leonidě Andreevě s portretami,
Petrograd, Prometeĭ Cᵒ, 1914. Price, 1½ rubles.

But few of these references are included in the present Bibliography,
since the book of L′vov-Rogachevskïĭ is readily obtainable.



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