CORNELL UNIVERSITY ' LIBRARY -■i^^ai '■.>■ '•* FROM H.J. Patten Cornell University Library PG 3452.A2M48 1915 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924026684971 PLAYS BY LEONID ANDREYEFF f O H V. J PLAYS BY LEONID ANDREYEFF THE BLACK MASKERS THE LIFE OF MAN THE SABINE WOMEN TRANSLATED FROM THE RXTSSIAN BY CLARENCE L. HEADER and FRED NEWTON SCOTT WITH AH INTBODHCTOBT E88AT BT V. V. BRUSYANIN AUTHORISED EDITION NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1915 CoPTKiaHT, 1915, BT CHARLES SCEIBNEE'S SONS Published February, 1915 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 TchekoflF." 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 Moiseyeflf, of Tomsk, Siberia. The TkansiiAtobs. Ann Abbob, Mich., October, 1914. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE The life of Leonid Nikolaivicli Andreyeff has been un- eventful. 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, Andreyeflf 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 sup- ported himself in part during his university career in Petro- grad 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 in- satiable reader, and at an early age he had read all the Russian classics and such foreign authors as had been trans- lated 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 news- paper 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 viii BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 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 incom- patible 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 ex- ceedingly popular. His plays have been enthusiastically re- ceived 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 re- ceived, 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 Rus- sian 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. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE ix 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 clear- ness of his vision, and as a tribute to his marvellous descrip- tive powers. THE SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OF ANDREYEFF "The Life op Man," "The Black Maskeks," "The Sabine Women" ' Leonid Andketepf, as a dramatist, is the most interest- ing product of contemporary Russian literature. Abandon- ing the older traditions that prevailed from Ostrovski' to Tolstoi, and passing by the school of Tcheko£F,' he brought to the theatre a unique form of art, the rich possibilities of which he is stUl developing. In 1913 Andreyeff published in the theatrical journal Masici a "Letter on the Theatre."* 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."* Let us see what this theatre panpsyche is, and how Andreyefif applies his theory to his dramatic productions. With that spirit of independence which has characterised all great Russian writers, Andreyeff, disregarding long-ac- ' Since Mr. Bnisyanin, 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. 'Ostrovski is regarded as the founder of the modem realistic drama in Russia. His literary career extended from 1850 to 1836. • It is interesting to note that the plays of Andreyeff were staged by the same Moscow theatre which introduced Tchekoff to the public. < Republished in 1914 in the Almenakh Shipomik along with another letter on the same subject. ■Literally, "all soul," or "all thought." xi xii SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OF ANDREYEFF cepted traditions even now generally regarded as essential, asks point-blank the heretical question: "Is action, in the accepted sense of movements and visible axihievem^nts on the stage, necessary to the theatre?" In his opinion it is not neces- sary, inasmuch as modern life itself in its most tragic as- pects 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 de- veloped out of Ostrovski's art.^ li^ this respect AndreyeflF is closely akin to Maeterlinck, in whose plays dramatic col- ' lisions are not marked by external action, but the problems %hat 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 IViqdrich Nietzsche. In reading the memoirs of Cellini, Andreyeff was struck by the large number of events in the life of the mediaeval artist and advepturer. "How many escapes, murders, surprises, losses and miexpected discov- eries, loves ^d enmities !" exclaims Andreyeff. "Cellini.en- counters^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, diAtes, swords, and man- dolins. In those days interest attached only to a life that * AH the plays of Ostrovaki are marked by conspicuous esfternal action, which is . often prejudicial to dramatic truth and inconsistent with the principle of realism. t' - SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OF ANDREYEFF xiii 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 AndreyeflF, "are there events, activities, physical achievements ? In his early manhood, while he was a Prus- sian soldier, and was still to a certain extent a tnan 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-evaJuation of all values, the tragical struggle, the break with Wagner, and the charming Zarathustral" The contemporary drama, says AndreyeflP, has shown it- self powerless to represent the drama of Nietzsche. In the presence of the spiritual and intellectual conflict it is speech- less. "Humbly bowing before the immutable law of action, the contemporary drama declines to represent — ^indeed, can- not represent for us — a Nietzsche, who is so near, so im- portant, so essential to our lives, but continues to ofiPer us in profusion empty, antiquated, and unneceSMjy Cellinis, with their paraphernalia of tin swords, etc." AndreyeflF ex- plains 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 in- tellectual strivings — the struggle of man's thoughts with man — and has never thrown open the door that leads to them. xiv SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OF ANDREYEFF 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 his- tory has ceased its forward movement. The chronicle of current events is still suflSciently replete with suicides, strife, and war, but all these events in their outward aspects have fallen in dramatic value. Life has become more psycholog- ical. 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 ambi- tion, but thought in its sufferings, joys, and struggles, is the truejhero 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 disenchant- ments 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 SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OF ANDREYEFF xv "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 con- cerned. Yet his restless thoughts, and in particular the one persistently recurring thought that he was not Dulce Lorenso, 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 Lorenso. 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 mask- ers, 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 modem 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, AndreyefiE instinctively selected new outer forms to correspond. These forms, though intelli- gible 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 xvi SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OF,ANDREYEFF and affirms that the motto of all future art will be "truth in art." When the modem "psychological" novelist or dram- atist brings his heroes on the stage, are they the product of the "play of his fancy"? asks Andreyeff. "No," he re- plies, "he experiences them, lives them, creates them, fash- ions them, any word you choose; only do not use the word 'play.'" For play is something entirely different and dis- tinct from the artistic process of creating new beings, which is the basis of the dramatist-psychologist's art. Play is pre- tence; 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,"^ when staged, was condemned by the critics on the ground of excessive symbolism and allegory.^ 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 tUl death. In the first I "The Life of Man," published in 1906, was the first symbolic drama written in Russia. Later followed Andreyeff's symbolic dramas, "King Hunger" (the represen- tation 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. ' 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. SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OF ANDREYEFF xvii 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 Andreyeflf takes as the basis of his symbolism; and this selection of a basal motive from the life of the com- mon people is that very truth in art of which AndreyefE 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 individual- ist whose whole life is centred upon himself and his own in- terests, 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 some- thing entirely different. Professor Reisner, in his work en- titled "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 ex- isting between him and nature disappear. He is not merely left in isolation, but about him is formed a desert — a vast, so- cial chasm, and the great principle called the law of life now has no means of coming into contact with the naked indi- vidual. 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 be- come 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 bom 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 xviii SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OF ANDREYEFF 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 fire- place "that burned whole logs." In the ball of Man the hero reaches the summit of life. Observe the feeling of dig- nified 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 indiflference, following persistently every step of Man's life — the Being in Grey, in whose hand is burn- SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OF ANDREYEFF xix ing — burning out — the candle that symbolises the meaning of the life of this man who has failed to establish a bond be- tween 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." * 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 abeady 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, condi- tioned by the strife between the intellect and the emotions, with its attendant sufiFerings and joys in the case of a man whose strivings toward harmony and order are doomed to clash with the primeval chaos.^ 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 Lo- renzo?" 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 * See Prologue. ■ This definition of life is given by Andreyeff in the study published variously under the titles "My Diary " and "Our Prison." XX SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OF ANDREYEFF 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 emo- tions 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." * 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 difiference ? 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 re- mains 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* ' > "The Lite of Man," Act IV, SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OP ANDREYEFF xxi 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 considere3rEis"Iife good and beautiful, but having invited his masked guests to his ball he discovered the false- ness 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 Ko- misarzhevskaia, 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 AndreyeflF, 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 AndreyeflP 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 xxii SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OF ANDREYEFF Hunger' could not be written without symbolism; 'The Seven who were Hanged '^could be written only in realistic tones. Tchekoff— the dear, delightful, sensitive Tchekofif, who was always so cautious and considerate in his utterances — finding himself once in a circle of intimate friends and hear- ing the name of Ibsen mentioned, blurted out: 'Ibsen's a fool!' If TchekoflE did not understand Ibsen's symbolism, could not grasp it, shall I be oflPended 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 under- standing 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 imderstand, was like that rich and distinguished gentleman who arranged a gorgeous masquerade in his castle and illumi- nated 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, SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OF ANDREYEFF xxiii are ordinary people; yet even these are transformed and lose their real semblances and, like the black maskers, they be- come 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. Becall the un- canny 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 «>f 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 transforma- tion 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., re- nouncing 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; xxiv SYMBOLIC DEAMAS OF ANDREYEFF 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 in- visible 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 un- reconciled, 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 SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OF ANDREYEFP xxv 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. Not- withstanding their repute, however, the "Kadets," as they are called for short, being composed of individuals represent- ing both progressive and conservative elements of society, have a mixed character, which serves to distinguish them from both the socialistic and the populistic parties. Natur- ally 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 Andreyefif's satire. The crude Romans, the ab- ductors 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 Martins instructs them to march by taking two steps forward and one step back- ward. The two forward steps are designed to indicate "the unquenchable fire of our stormy souls, the firm will, the irre- sistible 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- xxvi SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OF ANDREYEFF 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 interpreta- tion 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 contribu- tions to Bussian social thought. Above all, the reader should understand that Andreyeff paints Bussian life in true colours, and to know his works is to know contem- porary Bussia. V. V. Bbustanin. Petrogbad, October, 1914. CONTENTS / J PAQB BlOGBAPHICAL NoTE vii The Symbolic Dramas of Andeeyeit, an Essay by V. V. Bkustanin xi 3 The Black Maskers 1 The Life of IV^n 65 / The Sabine ^^omen 157 / Bibliogbaphy of Andkeyeff 197 THE BLACK MASKERS CAST OF CHARACTERS Lorenzo, Duke of Spadaro Ecco, a jester Donna Fbancesca, vdfe of Lorenzo SiGNOK Cbistofoko, 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 THE BLACK MASKERS ACT I SCENE I A luxurious, newly decorated hall in an ancient feudal castle. The walls are adorned vnth frescoes and hung with paint- ings 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-ernbroidered curtains. The rear wall, turn- ing 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 en- trance-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 bril- liant light. The final, hasty preparations are going on for a masquerade ball. The room is flooded with light from many chan- deliers and from strikingly beautiful candelabra and 3 4 THE BLACK MASKERS acti. sc.i 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 upstairs or to the entry doors, the firm, business-like voice of the overseer, SiGNOE Petkuccio, redoubling their haste and their emu- lation. 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 Loeenzo, 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 Feancesca, 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 whisper- ing 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 ACT I. Bc. I THE BLACK MASKERS 5 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 ! Mabio. Why, Signer 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 comer is? No darkness. Signer Petruccio, no darkness ! A Gentleman. [7*0 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. Signer Silvio. Ecco. [Calling out] Mario ! Carlo ! Pietro ! Quick ! Hold a candle under this gentleman's nose. The darkness fright- ens him out of his wits. Fbancesca. [To the Duke, affectionately] My dear! my love! my divinity! Hew charming your new costume is! You are like a shaft of sunlight flung through the lofty win- dow 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 ten- derness, but suddenly, in mock terror, calls to the overseer] But the tower, Petruccio, the tower! If you have forgotten to 6 THE BLACK MASKERS act i. sc. i illuminate the tower I will have you impaled like an un- baptised 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 wUl 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 continiudly wet. He turns gloomily to the Duke. Cristoeoro. 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. ACT I. sc. I THE BLACK MASKERS 7 One of the Suite. Signer Cristoforo, why are your moustaches always wet? CHisToroBO. [With dignity] It is my duty, sir, to test all the wines. LoHENZO. [Cheerfully] My good friend, you exaggerate the danger. Our cellars are inexhaustible. Chistofoeo. [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. Cbistofoho. [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 illumi- nate the roadway, and our friends will not be able to find us. Petruccio. The roadway is illuminated, Signor. Lorenzo. Eluminated ? 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. 8 THE BLACK MASKERS act i. sc. i Second Servant. Signer 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 im- patience. 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-mor- row I discharge you, if you Petruccio. Pardon me, sir. I will run. [Runs out. Lorenzo. They have come! Smile, Francesca! They have come ! ACT I. sc. I THE BLACK MASKERS 9 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 direc- tions ? Fbancesca. Don't be angry, my dear. The musicians are in readiness. LoBExzo. But why are they not here ? Fbancesca. 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. LoEENZO. 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 10 THE BLACK MASKERS acti. sc.i costumes are such as are common at masquerades — harlequins, jderrots, Saracens, Turkish men and women, and animals and flowers. But ail 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. LoEENZO. [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 vrith great courtesy] Let us leave Death in peace, gentlemen. ACT I. sc. I THE BLACK MASKERS 11 A Voice. Ask Death to leave you in peace. What need of peace has he ? LoEENZO. Who said that? Was it you. Signer 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. Signer 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, gen- tlemen, on your extremely interesting jest. Still, I should like to know who you are — Ah, here come others ! Greet- ings, 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 12 THE BLACK MASKERS act i. sc. i 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, Signer, my heart is full of love and wel- come. Within my heart all is as radiant as is this castle, which greets you so joyously, my strange guests. The Spidek. Lorenzo, Lorenzo, let us go and catch flies. Id 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. caviicrusly stroking the serpent] When the devil tempts he takes the form of a ser- pent. But you, of course, are not the devil. You are only a mock serpent, only a mock serpent. [Hastily] But, gen- tlemen, is it not time to dance? The musicians, I pre- sume, 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 ACT I. sc. I THE BLACK MASKERS 13 me — But where are you ? Petruccio! Petruccio! Really, I shall have to impale this fat rascal. Hello, there, some- body ! Manucci ! Pietro ! FiBST Maskeb. Did you call me, sir ? Second Maskeh. Did you call me, sir ? LoBENZo. [Perplexed] No, I did not call you. [Grasping the situation and laughing] Ah, yes, I see. My good fel- lows, how dare you iliingle with the guests ? FiEST Maskeb. They told us to. Second Maskeb. They told us to. LoBENZo. [Good-humouredly clapping one of the Maskebs 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 ser- vants. A Maskeb. [Turning to the others] Gentlemen, Lorenzo has mislaid his servants. Loud laughter, the Maskebs bowing viith mock courtesy. A Voice. But where is your suite, Lorenzo? Lobenzo. [Loolcing 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. Lobenzo. [Very affably, but with dignity] It is delightful, gentlemen, to find you in such merry vein. I am overjoyed 14 THE BLACK MASKERS act i. bc. i at your charming jest. But I should be deeply offended if you really took my servants' place — Mario ! Other Maskeks 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 d^ormed 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 pleasiu-e, my dear guests, in welcoming you to my castle. From this moment it is entirely at your service. Ah, what a charming proces- sion! Tell me, my beauties, where is your bridegroom, the 1 devil ? FiKST 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 Creattjbe. [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. Li your heart, Lorenzo. Lorenzo. [Cheerfully] How they do slander my poor heart! I am pleased to — [Staggering back] What an amaz- ing 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. ACT I. sc. I THE BLACK MASKERS 15 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 Maskeb. It is dark, Lorenzo. Lorenzo. But I ordered an abundance of lights. We will have more of them. Petruceio ! Petruccio ! The Maskbh. It is cold, Lorenzo. LoBENZO. 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, Pe- truccio I 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. [7m 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 Cristof oro ? A tail, 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 16 THE BLACK MASKERS act i. sc. i wine? You have tasted too mucli 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, hut 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. Cristo- foro — ! 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 b 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 bril- liantly. Did you notice as we rode along that something was moving in the shadows of the cypresses ? — I saw nothing but darkness. ACT I. sc. I THE BLACK MASKERS 17 — 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 Gkey Cheatuee 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 Maskee. Yes, it was I, Ecco. Ecco. I observe, Signora, that a hump on the breast de- forms a character no less than a hump on the back. The Beautiful Mabkee 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. 18 THE BLACK MASKERS acti. sc.i LoBENZo. 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 Maskee in the Ohchestea. We are playing what you gave us, sir. LoEENZO. [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 toith castanets] The bride- groom is coming. The bridegroom is coming. The bride- groom is coming. LoEENzo. Pardon me, my charming jesters, but I must first admonish this bold-faced rascal, Luigi. A Maskee in the Oechestea. Luigi is not here, Signor. Loeenzo. Then who is speaking ? Is that you, Stampa ? The Maskee. No, it is another. We are playing only what you gave us, Signor. Loeenzo. [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. Anothbe Voice. It's certainly your own music, Duke. A Thied Voice. But where are you yourself, Lorenzo.? Laughter. The music continues. The old wcrnien vyith the castanets run forward. ACT I. Bc. I THE BLACK MASKERS 19 The Old Women. The bridegroom is coming. The bride- groom. The bridgroom is coming. LoEBNZo. [Bowing Zow] I crave your pardon, my dear sir, for not greeting you as I should, but there are so many per- sons 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, provd, and beautiful qu£en 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 ! Crusa- ders ! 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. 20 THE BLACK MASKERS act i. sc. i LoBEXzo. [With rising anger] Who has dared to aflFront 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 oflfence 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 himchback. 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 beautiftd 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 ACT I. sc. I THE BLACK MASKERS 21 and respectfully kisses her hand, then rises] I see only the graceful outline of your figure and your little foot, but per- mit 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. X 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 in- vited 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 re- member 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, some- 22 THE BLACK MASKERS acti. sc.i thing was wrong with the wine. How absurd, gentlemen ! My brain seems to have turned to melted lead. Lovd 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. [Laitghing 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 gases into her eyes, then laughs joyfvUy] 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 whifper] My dear, I am so weary, and my heart pains me as if a ser- pent 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, Fran- cesca, my dear, my beloved, that is not true, is it? The Masker. It is only a mask, Lorenzo. ACT I. sc. I THE BLACK MASKERS 23 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. LoREXZO. [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 for- gotten, 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 beaiiiiful Masker ap- proaches 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! Lo- renzo ! 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 ? 24 THE BLACK MASKERS acti. sc.i 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 in- quiry, 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 mon- sters. 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 be- hind and speaks in a hud 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 terri- fied voice: "Save me, Lorenzo, I am here." Loud ACT I. sc. I THE BLACK MASKERS 25 laughter. The seven old women, with ike air of coy and embarrassed brides, seem about to throw them- selves 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 apjiroaches 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 en- tangled in the spider-web there and waits for you. But b 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, gentle- men. It is rare that these earthly ears of mine are ravished by celestial melodies. But you will not criticise me too 26 THE BLACK MASKERS act i. sc. i harshly. In the virgin purity of the tones you will find a restful calnmess 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 yoiu- 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, d^ormed creature like a living fragment of darkness. Glancing abovt timidly and suspicioicsly, 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, shrink- ing 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 himdred. 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 ? ACT I. SCI THE BLACK MASKERS 27 Second Maseeh. No, to him who lights them. Lorenzo. My friends, I beg your attention. You see this nrasked gentleman. His name is Bomualdo 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, RomuaJdo ? The Masked Singek. I have, sir. Lorenzo. And the words? Consult yournotes 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, Bomualdo, do your best, my friend. Do not disgrace me, and to-morrow I will give you a costly belt. The accompaniment begins with a heavtifvl, soft, and tender harmony, pure and clear as a clondless sky or as the eyes of a child ; but with each successive mea- sure which the masked artist sings the music becomes more fragmentary and mare restless and soon passes over into vrUd 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 iato 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. 28 THE BLACK MASKERS act i. sc. i The Masked Singeb. [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 leith 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. ACT I. sc. I THE BLACK MASKERS 29 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." Ajyplatiae. 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! LoRExzo. [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. Lokenzo. [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 tlie staircase. Ones: "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. Un- invited guests are coming. 30 THE BLACK MASKERS act i. sc. n Thihd 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 confttsion. Everything is enveloped in darkness. The wild music, however, continues, gradually receding. Curtain. SCENE II From somewhere in the distance come sounds of muMC, which, mingling with the howling and whistling of the wind that rages about the castle, Jill 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 ceil- ing is vaulted and there are small windoms 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 iised 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 wrou^ht-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 Lohenzo turns them over. Lo- renzo is dressed as at the ball. ACT I, Bc. n THE BLACK MASKERS 81 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 fright- ened 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 hor- rible truth of things human and divine, has bowed his youth- ful back. Poor Lorenzo ! Poor Lorenzo ! [He reads. Break- ing 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, return- ing 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 thoitght. Smft 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 sealed, and cries out in a frightened voice. 32 THE BLACK MASKERS act i. sc. n The Second Lorenzo. Who is this? The Fiest 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. Re- move 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. Ofif with your mask, sir ! [He advances toward the other^ The FrasT 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] OS 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. [Furioiisly] 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 ob- viously the inferior. There are brief, muffle excla- mations : ACT I. Bc. m THE BLACK MASKERS 33 "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 vnth 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 he mme 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 34 THE BLACK MASKERS acti. ecra /or 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 jly 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 ob- jects, 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 Maskgbs 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 ac- cord 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. ACT I. 8c. m THE BLACK MASKERS 35 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, biU the latter shrinks from him. The Masker. Keep yoiu: hands from me, sir, or I will hew oflE 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. TnraD 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 Lo- renzo. Call Lorenzo. The Old Women. [Running up with castanets] The bride- 36 THE BLACK MASKERS act i. sc. m groom is coming. The bridegroom is coming. The bride- groom is coming. Voices. Lorenzo ! Lorenzo ! Lorenzo ! LoEENZO 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, gentle- men? 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 ACT I. Bc. m THE BLACK MASKERS 37 them aJI — 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 thv Duke. The Black Maskeh. Did you kindle the light? LoBENZO. 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 unin- vited. 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 trans- formed 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 38 THE BLACK MASKERS act i. sc. m goes out. They devour the light. They put the light out with their black bodies. FiKST 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 be- coming 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 hurst open, as if suddenly yielding to a strong pressure, and let in a throng of Black Mask- ers, and at the same instant the light grows markedly fainter. The BiiAck Maskers, roaming ahotit 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 ensiles 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 ex- tinguished 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 dark- ness it has never been my good fortune to witness. A thou- sand thanks to him who devised it. I am his devoted, life- long servant. ACT I. sc. Ill THE BLACK MASKERS 39 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 Maskeh. Some one has already gone to the tower. The Spidek. [Speaking to a Black Masker toward whom he has for some time been making his way] Are you from Satan ? The BiiACK 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 or- chestra 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, suxih as mothers sing when they lull their children, and strangely, with Una and tender harnwnies, the strains of the orchestra answer to the song. All else is silent. The BiiAck Maskers, in awkward and ungainly atti- tudes, 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. Lo- renzo, closing his eyes and swaying slightly, sings in a low voice. Suddenly, behind him, along the stair- way, 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. 40 THE BLACK MASKERS acti. bc. in 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 him- self 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. OflE 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 an- other 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, gentle- men ? [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 unbe- coming jest. I swear on my honour that this is the face that God gave me when I was bom, and not one of those repulsive ACT I. sc.m THE BLACK MASKERS 41 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 tvyitoh convulsively. For a moment, with teeth bared, he presents the appear- ance of a frightful, laughing mask, but instantly his face becomes motionless, turns pale, and stiffens. LoBENzo. [Horrified] What is this? What has happened to my face? It does not obey me. It will not smile, but grows rigid. [Pileov^ly] 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: "OflE with your mask, mur- derer ! Look, look ! Lorenzo is turning to stone." LoBENZO. [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 ofif, 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 Lo- renzo. Bring your consecrated sword, Cristoforo. Save your master, whom God has abandoned. One moment, gentle- men, one moment — I will He utters a wild cry and falls. At the same instant there is a crash of brealdng window-frames, the windows are burst open, and through them pour in the Black Mabkehs. The hall is dark save for the tremulous light of two remaining torches, and presendy one of these goes out. A com/motion arises on the darkened stage. There are wild cries of terror and despair and vain efforts to escape. Several of the B11A.CK Mask- EBa mount the musicians' balcony, seize the horns, and trumpet wildly. 42 THE BLACK MASKERS act i. sc. m 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! FiEST Voice. The tower is full of them. They are pouring down from it like a black torrent. Bring torches. FouBTH Voice. There are no more torches. This is the last. Manx Voices. Save yourselves, save yourselves ! Thihd 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 ! Thihd Voice. Swords are powerless against them. FouBTH Voice. There is no way of escape. We are lost! Crazy Lorenzo ! He has ruined us all! The Black Maskebs. [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 Maskeks. It's cold, cold. Where is the light ? Where is the fire ? They crowd around the last torch, which one of the Mask- ers 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 SCENT iV A comer of the chapel in the feudal castle. The walls are draped in black in sign of mourning. The tall, dust-laden vrindows 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 comer 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 Lo- Biavzo, 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 neigh- bourhood has by now been informed of your death, Duke Lorenzo, and in tears is calling for vengeance on your mur- derer. Lie still, Signor. Those who loved you are now com- ing 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 43 44 THE BLACK MASKERS act n. bc. iv throw it to your hunting-dogs. In the name of our former friendship, I beseech you, Lorenzo, lie quiet. [He arranges the ghr