Editor-in-Chief Business Manager Assistant Editor Assistant Editor
LUTHER WELLS •
WESTHAMPTON COLLEGE
DOROTHY GWALTNEY
VIRGINIA BECK •
ELIZABETH GILL
JOHNNIE ADAMS Staff Artist
Editor-in-Chief Business Manager Assistant Editor Assistant Editor
THE MESSENGER is published every month from October to Jtne by the students of the University of Richmond. Contributions are welcomed from all members of the student body and from the alumni. Manuscripts not found available for publication will be returned. Subscription rates are Two Dollars per year; smgle copies Thirty-five Cents. All business communications should be addressed to the Business Managers. Entered as second-class matter in the postoffice at the University of Richmond.
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EDITORIALS
n~E co~position of editorials is a peculiar activity, mvolvmg much esoteric skill and unique erudition. Unsuspected as such by the reader of editorials, the practicing editor must in reality be a very strange man, unfit in many cases for the elemental processes of social life, and-in distinction to the banker or the realtor-inadequate always in funds and at deipnosophic discourse. The editor, indeed, is not infrequently reduced to a state of reclusion and cenobitism, vol1;1ntaryor enforced, in which condition he prepares to thnve-the practicing editor-as did any mediaeval anchorite, denying to himself the voluptuousnesses and exquisities of this world in return for a spiritual fecundity and an ultimate ascension into supernal arpeggic bliss.
For to the editor above all men is reflective solitude and a philosophic imperturbability essential to the slightest practice of his craft. Should he allow a momentary re-
shut his ears to it and trust Dieu et sa droite that the issue will, somehow, get to press and be out at least vaguely on time. His own especial energies he must consecrate to the sacrasanct summum dificulum of all writing, the editorial. When his editorial fingers actually get to touching a key to two of his associates subside into a reverent hush, and the office-boy must loose into the air a subtle perfume that the nostrils of the Master may be permeated with its elusive and provocative beauty. Should this intellectual aphrodisiac fail, the Master's fingers dwindle again into idleness, and the unmistakable look peculiar to the first stage of editorial despair appear upon his face, more potent measures must be resorted to: vinagret, brandy, or champagne.
Finally, after a progression of despairs and renewals of effort, the editor has necessarily, like a gland, se_creted a number of words m some neo-grammatical sequence. This becomes an object of le~se of silent vigilance, he will find himself being goaded into editorial idiocy by the shrieks and clamors of his subordinates, motley utterances in a blaring confusion of tongues, keys, and tempers - cries relevant to :he procuring of material, to its selection, to the time for press, to the reading of proofs, .and to the profuse c?n~omitant details of pub~ ltshmg any issue.
Toward all this must the practicing editor remain lofty and austere; he must
TABLE Of CONTENTS
A Young Man On a Fence, John Fenris
Portrait of H. H. V., B. A. Roque
Recollections of Otis Skinner, Elizabeth Gill
Puppet History, Catherine Dawson
Lucidity, Paul Ft·ederic Bowles
Wind Dance, Corinne Morecock
Light and Shadow, Geneva Bennett
extreme interest and care; it is delicately expanded and embellished ; it assumes what might generously be termed a form. Then is it exhibited proudly to the subordinates, clipped neatly to the proof, and dispatched to the linotypist-in order that it may appear reassuringly in this place, saving the editorial dignity by making at least passable sense to anyone foolish enough to assume that it is put here really to be read.
Chinese Verses, Bruce Morrissette
Five Adaptations From the Chinese
By BRUCE ARCHER MORRISSETTE
The Flowerless Garden
There is no shade beneath the peach-trees; There are no more blossoms for thy hair. In my eyes only, looking beyond the torn garden at the high clouds, Is there a light shadow.
-Meng Chu-yi, 9th cent.
An Elegy for a High Lady
I had thought the silks always well-chosen; The hands had been the object of my exquisite admiration . But the elegies of the poets are gaudy and insincere; They have mentioned neither the hands nor the silks. Therefore I shall place no flower on this grave.
-Li Hsiin-he, 9th cent.
The Bed Curtains
In the white dawn I walk with my bare feet on the dew. As I touch the marble stairs I know that she has shivered, Closing the silk curtains of her bed.
-Kao Chen, 7th cent.
Alba: the Lute
I am chilled, and the robe is wet with dew. She is gone, leaving the silver lute on the grass.
-Tsu Tuan, 9th cent.
Flamingo Song
Girl of the violin-scented perfume,_
Come let us water the oboes in the dusk by the jasminepools.
Let us lie among April flutes while bird-trills crumble.
-Ts'en T'ao, 9th cent.
A Young Man On A Fence
By JOHN FENRIS
T was his first day in the country; not really, of course, for he had been born and got to seven years old there. But the gulf between then and now was ten years wide, and he could look across this vastness with no sense of kinship to the little figure on the other side. Moreover, to have been here before, even, so long ago as that, would mar the picture. Or, rather-he was venturesome with metaphor-it would muffie the symphony of his emotions, ready now properly to play. And so, he said to himself, this was his first day in the country.
In the afternoon he set out to wander through the October fields, finding this a recreation full of subtle delights, which it would have been a pity ever to have known before. Several times he stopped to stretch out on his back in the shade of some wide branched tree and attend, with eye and ear, to the whispering commotion in the dying leaves overhead. Once he sat long upon a rickety old snake-fence and studied with serious young eyes the skeleton of a dead tree, finding in its naked angles, etched stiffiy against the sky, a beauty that prefigured winter's, and thrilled him-yes-as all the spoiling abundance of summer could not. Again, on the same fence, but £acing the other way, he perched with his elbows on his knees and his hands under his chin, gravely considering the field of stubbled corn that lay beyond and was not a part of his father's land. And here it was that, chancing to lift his gaze to the sky, he saw sweeping towards him out of the west a great bird, flying high.
Tipping a wing it made a wide and gracious circle, and then another, balancing and carening with a peculiar calm grace, and seeming as remote from earthly associaions as its shadow slipping over the grass far beneath. At this performance the young man on the fence forgot for quite ten minutes the brown earth and gradually assumed an attitude of rapt observation in which he resembled a young monk finding his god in some commonplace miracle of nature, and was not, perhaps, wholly unconscious of the fact. He had never before "really" realized a flying bird;, and to realize this one today only as a thing of unspotted beauty, pursuing a perfect existence up there high above everything, now drifting through the clear blue, now becalmed, rocking on motionless wings, required of
him not the smallest effort. He could think, and did, with a pleasant melancholy, of the wonderful gift that had been vouchsafed the creatures of the air. Beauty was theirs, he mused; pure beauty, out of the reach of, unaware of, the world.
And he could think too, with satisfaction, that the country was certainly going to be for him all that he had desired, immensely more than· he had hoped all this while since, last week, he had decided to come here. It offered the ideal refuge for the bruised philosopher, productive as it was of no phase of life which was not beautifully clean, because representative of instinct in its most clarified form. It was a place where onei could lie fallow and recuperate the soul, on which delicate tissue life was continually making such vicious assaults. In short, it was exactly the place for such a one as he, who had not reached seventeen years without knowing all about those assaults and the ache to effect at the sources of life-whatever they might be-some sort of reconciliation.
He had early observed that many of the simplest pleasures of this world were to be, at best, but imperfectly enjoyed, on account of an appearance of evil they wore. And by now he profoundly disbelieved in the appearance of things. The great thing, the only thing worth the consideration of intelligent persons, was motive, and all that obscured this fact from general recognition was a crust of mixed ignorance and prejudice, the decaying deposit of generations which, when not completely blind, were at least astigmatic What had we preserved intact from those generations except heir prejudices? All else we had improved upon, or had done away with altogether in favor of newer and more serviceable inventions. All else, that is, save the things we kept in museums, which was also the proper place for old prejudices. Immure them there and in no time the actions of men would be seen with unbiased eyes, the motives behind those actions would appear; and as motives were rooted ! in nature, and therefore could not be unbeautiful, it would be recognized that ugliness was ugliness only because wilfully seen as such.
Wicked people, he thought, were only ignorant people; people who went about it the wrong way, doing deliberately what they believed to be wrong, instead of taking the trouble to understand that all they did naturally and instinctively was good.
Take himself, for example. Not two years ago, when he first began really to think, his life had been marred by a constant warfare between the only two methods of reconciling spirit and flesh then known to him. He had spent his! days in wondering whether he could more comfortably turn his back on offensive phases of life or bravely stare them down. Now, in the safety of a stage where, as preoccupations, spirit and flesh ceased to present themselves to the mind in forms permitting such crude classification, he could almost laugh to think of the crass ignorance of that past period. Thank goodness, he knew now that the offensiveness had existed only in his own mind, as it still existed in the minds of others! And here in the country he could already see he was going to know this better and better. The country lent itself with a thrilling readiness to the support of his theories. In fact it was his theories; for in the country natural instinct ruled supreme, and natural instinct was motive at its purest.
What a pity there was nobody to whom he could talk like this. Nobody at all. For there was nobody who understood, or who would not laugh. . . . Laugh! Well, let them, he didn't care. Someday he meant to write it all out in a book, and then they'd ' see. It would not be read, of course not, that is, by many people. But one did not write so much to be read as to steady one's self, and perhaps gain an advance, in one's own thinking. . . Still, a few might read it, and perhaps from the few one might come to him .. some ... who would he like that to be? Another writer, perhaps, since he himself would be a writer by that time. Yes, perhaps another writer, a great writer, would read it and come to him, and love him, and tell him how true it was that life was all as he saw it, clean, beautiful, as remote from the common earthly idea as was that great bird's shadow which had been slipping over the grass awhile ago. . . He sighed once, for that the bird was gone. The aloofness of its being, the silent purity of its high flight, had made it, of all the symbols around him, the most ideal. He sighed again for that he must be going, too, and lowered his feet to the earth. He departed reluctantly, with a long backward look and the returning thought that there were few things more worth looking at than a field of stubbled corn. But he meant to see it again. Only next time he would come when it was night and there was a moon. Then, while the light slowly flooded the despoiled and broken field, and the misshapen old fence twisted away into darkness, he might recapture
for a moment the thrilling witch feeling of the Hallowe'ens of his childhood.
The field, despoiled and broken. . . . Something might be made of that line, that thought; something best done, perhaps, in verse. As he breasted a small hill that lay in his homeward way he debated the question, not new in his mind, whether he might not better be a poet than a philosopher. Certainly he had at times thoughts, feelings and phrases that only a poet could have. Of course he might be both poet and philosopher. But there was plenty of time to decide about that. And meanwhile, with all this newness here in himself, brought out by the magic of the open country, the look and feeling of it, there was plenty to occupy his mind. Indeed, it wa s enough at the moment to watch, as he walked, the progress of twilight about its business of changing, changing, and again changing the varied autumnal hues of the trees and thickets along his way.
The crest of the hill on which he loitered was bordered, the young man found, with a far running tangle of ragged bush and vine. To save his clothes he had to pick his way through this obstruction with such care that his advance was almost noiseless and his thoughts entirely distracted until, safe at last on the other side, it so happened that, turning about, he came mid-tread to a standstill with suddenly stiffened muscles and a gasping breath. Almost at his feet, certainly not four yards from 1 his feet, lay a small body on which rested a bird of hideous aspect, intently feeding. It was an ungainly bird, loathsomely bald, which, catching sight of the intruder gave a squeak absu~dly disproportionate to its size and flopped heavily sideways.
Quickly the young man looked the other way and, stooping, cast behind him a clod of earth, the only missile he could find. There was a scuffiing amongst the dry leaves, a whirr of strong wings, and presently he could turn again and see the buzzard mounting slowly upward, winging its ascent very gloriously into the darkening blue. He could note, with some returning satisfaction, how, as its distance from the earth increased, its form and moving regained their loveliness. And he could wish that he might stand longer and, with eyes in which broodin g wistfulness would gradually replace disgust, watch it float wonderfully beyond his seeing. But this was impossible. Here was something left, the motive which had allured the bird to earth, there to obey its instinct. Giving the thing a wide circle as he himself moved off, the young man lifted two fingers and firmly held his nose.
Portrait of H. H. V.
By B. A. ROQUE
HERE was an ill-lighted and deserted looking Avenue on the Left Bank, and a house which presented a forbidding and cavernous approach to a small court. From this, through continued gloom and silence, an uncertain ascent was possible to what you fervently hoped would be the right door, since even now you might give up and go incontinently away before many malencontres at all the wrong ones there might be. You were already, as it was, sufficiently nervous at the prospect of facing a man who had somehow converted his name into a veritable lodestone for such legend as seemed, indeed, only too well supported by the fantastic character of the work he did.
In the salons of Paris you had heard that the artist was a renegade German; in Teutonic beer gardens he was as regularly repudiated with the story that he was half brother to a reigning monarch, rather noted for having half brothers, usually undesirable and always peculiar. This assertion they met in England, defensively, with the statement that he was a gypsy, when they didn't meet it with allusions to an exhaustive paper which had been published proving him the degenerate descendant of a well known Irish family, disowned for reasons unhappily too well advertised. On the other hand an American critic had lately insisted that the artist-as though to explain if not to excuse some of the more repugnant chapters in his history--claimed to be spilled from some cauldron of hopelessly mixed Russian, Spanish and Middle-European blood; while elsewhere there were not lacking those to argue, with equal conviction, that the artist was himself an American, from Iowa, whose deplorable range of activity was but a natural reaction against antecedents insupportably narrow. And some described him as enjoying vigorous health and a brutal physique, while other commentators, marking how he "trailed behind him certain clouds of glory from the nineties," perceived in him the veritable aesthete of that period as embodied in the sickly person and morbid temperament of Aubrey Beardsley.
Suck talk as this, you knew, and the unsavory implications in it, formed part of the large body of rumor that collected wherever the artist's pictures were ex-
hibited, quarrelled over, and purchased by people who were at once repelled and irresistibly drawn by their ugly sardonic magnificence. With it, too, you heard the more direct assertions of personal vagaries, moral delinquencies, and crimes imaginative beyond the scope of any decalogue or civic code, committed it every quarter of the globe and brooded upon periodically in a dilapidated castle in the middle of a forest in Bavaria. From this sylvan obscurity issued the strange sinister little masterpieces which people of every nation wanted, though no nation, it seemed, wanted the artist. From it also, to swell the tale of brilliant madness and ruthless eccentricity, came the whispers of unholy inspirational connections with forces in which the world has long affected disbelief without ever having been able to abate its talk of them.
What on earth, you wondered, had induced you to set in motion the train of events which had led you to the door of a man of such foul and formidable repute. Yet you did not turn away-not even when through the agency of some unseen and unguessable contrivance the door opened under the touch of your hand and fell back, revealing an empty passage. The effect was mysterious. But it was reassuring, at least insofar as it could be taken to mean that you were looked for, that even the exact hour of your appointment was perfectly remembered, and your entrance prepared. Passing the door wondering how you would be received was at least better than standing before it wondering how, and through what abrupt and possibly violent revolution of temper, you might be sent away.
Within you found a large room, dimly lighted, as was everything apparently in this unreassuring qua:ter of Paris and oddly cloaked in deep colored fabncs and lengths of unfamiliar fur which it _would be ine~act, you felt to call rugs or hangings or divan wvers, smce they soU:ehow seemed to partake of all and might at need serve as any of these things. A being who was at home in such a room might easily, and at any moment, drag down a curtain and throw it over a table, or pick up a luxuriously furred skin and cast it upon a carven Italian chair hang it upon the wall, or indeed wrap himself aloofly in it, if he liked, without suggesting any incongruity between the article and these varied uses.
That there was, nevertheless, an unperceived law be-
hind all this appearance of errat1c1sm you were inclined to concede, for some sort of composition-and that of the subtlest-there must be in a room which with so few and such severe pieces gave such an impression of multitudinous detail as was here to be felt. The room, actually but sparingly furnished, gradually impressed your sensitory nerves as unnecessarily full, and the being who was at home in it seemed presently to advance toward you not, indeed, directly over cleared spaces, but round and about among innumerable fragile and daintily ornamental objects, visible to his eye alone. Or perhaps this ghostly infinitude of delicate obstructions was felt less as so many appurtenances of the room itself than of the approaching figure, which in garments of lavender satin suggestive in cut of a Pierrot's dress moved quickly, in little darts and pauses, on small satin slippers with red heels. It was a figure, you falteringly allowed, which might easily conjure anything about it for its need-pompoms, masks, stiffened lawn, and even laughing Pierrettes and twirling Harlequins; and that these and many others had not actually entered the room with the man you were by no means the more certain because they were not as visible as he to your suddenly widened eyes.
This illusion, though transitory, left its singular effect. The law governing the room, with its manifold suggestions, was evidently the same baffling law behind the composition of the man's pictures. You recalled, as an important detail in your gathering impressions, that in point of fact he had notj seemed to enter the room. Certainly it was with no quickening sense of an added presence that you had first perceived him-it was rather as though he had been there all the time, simply dawning in his turn upon your enlarging consciousness, posed against a closed door precisely like one of his own bizarre apparitional creations. And there he had fixed you with the unchanging eyes which he was not for some time afterwards to remove from your face, no matter to what dim corner of the room, to what briefly occupied chair, his fluttering impulses of movement were to carry his wistfully costume body. In this alone, his capacity for direct, personal regard, did he seem at first to differ from the tragically unreal figures of his imagination, with their austerity of outline and grouping curiously combined with a profusion of minute detail. They, you recalled, did not look at you at all. They looked at something fatal, some appaling fact of life.
At them, with the artist before you, you suddenly knew you could never look again with the same eyes. So
this was the man whom your vision, when you thought of him as distinct from his art, had customarily flung against that dismal castle in the grim depths of a Bavarian forest. This was the man whose days the world had filled with one dramatic wildness after another, whose path to fame the world marked with reeking evils swiftly sprung and as swiftlty abandoned for the fierce speeding of the nextthe man whose very genius every nation, while gathering up the fruits of it, hastened to disclaim, for fear of the frowning menace, the devilish portent it was held to emanate from. As he neared you, he seemed not so much to reassure, as to invite reassurance with what might well have been a chronic look of dim bravery. The quietude of the room he seemed loath to break. For him, you felt, every word was a venture, and, with a stranger, one he might not dare too soon. But he seemed to atone for his consent to the lasting silence with a shy smile and the tender care with which he received your hat and stick, and the gentle touch which next fell upon your shoulder as he drew your coat into the lavender shelter of his arm. And always he looked at you, steadily looked some anxious unasked question. Was it possible that for him you-no, not merely you, but each individual of the human species was the something fatal, the appalling fact of life at which the tortured eyes of the creatures he drew seemed to stare from their bedizened parchments?
Gone, at any rate, for you, was the conviction of the essential depravity of those skilfully limned creatures. They were never again to be seen by you as wholly evil, writhing dumbly in the grip of some foul inheritance. With an intelligence and a vision newly informed by a sight of the artist, you knew them now rather as the macabre toys of a child, toys which for all their surface parade of torment and distortion, were filled with a pathetic innocence, a lurking wistfulness, which was that of the child himself, here now, white, slight, tentative on thd red heels of his pitiful masquerade. Fate, which had cast the cloak of genius on his shoulders, had not cut him to the measure of its long and heavy folds, and this, you felt, he stumblingly knew in, the way people know things from which they keep the frightened eyes of the mind averted. Thus it was, perhaps, that he had become what you saw plainly he was :-but one more in the long list of those who, wholly unaware of the figure they make in the world, go ingenuously about the business of living their lives as simply and unostentatiously' as they feel like living it. It was, you knew, of . all proceedings the one most profoundly mysterious to the onlooker. It was also, you now saw, the one most heavily punished.
Recollections of Otis Skinner
ELIZABETH GILL
He was the hero of my young imagination, the "magnificent omniscient." It was not at all a romantic sort of feeling, you understand, except insofar as all such notions are romantic. He was a sort of legendary giant who gazed benignly down-a bit like my idea of Merlin the enchanter, or of God.
How I first got such an impression of Otis Skinner I do not know. It must have started with hearing my parents prai se his actin g in some play, though heaven knows they'd no su ch hero worship of him as I had. And then I read about him, at various times, out of curiosity at seeing somewhere in print a familiar name-he was rather a prominent fig ure at the time and was commented on a good deal in papers and magazines. But the thing that created my attitude of awe was seeing him play a part.
I have two ment a l pi ctures of him which persist in spite of any later impression s Whenever I think of him, still, it is in terms of them. One I saw, durin g my very impressionable days, in some magazine, at the beginning of an article on stage celebrities of the time. It shows him in a most commanding attitude, with cane and tophat and fob and mustache, and maybe a monocle ( though I'm not quite sure about the monocle-it has been a long time and the picture's getting dim), all quite as prominent as the staring buttons of Dickens' miserable Slopsy. The other is as he looked in the first role I ever saw him play. He is wearing the tattered and somewhat grimy garments of a beggar of Bagdad.
And what a beggar! The word does not sound prepossessing. Neither does "thief." Yet one of the gayest and most glamorous figures in the literature of England was simply that-a thief. So with this beggar. He is thoroughly dishonest and thoroughly charming. He scruples not at all to lie and steal; he is overly fond of his bottle; and he ex asperates his upright young son beyong measure. He chooses to be a beggar because it is a time-honored profession which requires no exertion and which gives him leisure to cultivate his philosophy; and he is one of the laziest men in the Bagdad of the Caliphs, which is saying a good deal.
Perhaps by this time you are recognizing the beggar and his play. Yes, it is Kismet. And even if you do
not know the play, the name must still sound familiar. It has come to be quite common, even in our spoken language, as a synonym for fate ( or rather, that is the meanest translation I know for our use of it) ; and you must remember having seen it last year on the street car cards, in an advertisement of a new pronouncing dictionary. The advertisement was very popular, I believe, because it told the world that "kismet" was pronounced "kiss-me." Excellent psychology. It must have sold a good many copies of the dictionary.
"But," you object, "how could a child-a mere infant -appreciate such a play? Why should she even remember it?" Why not? The story is imaginative and colorful enough-the very stuff of fairy tales. And this child lived on fairy tales. She was an odd little creature-all eyes, and thin. In her pictures, she has a funny, eager smile that makes your own lips quirk in answer. I think she would understand it pretty well; it's not particularly deep. At least she remembered it.
She must have, because I have not read it since ( fear of losing my illusions, perhaps) and yet many scenes from it are still quite clear. It is just the glamorous, Arabian Nights sort of thing which would appeal to a child's imagination-a little like Chu Chin Chow, if you will remember so merely entertaining a play, which came to Richmond some ten years ago and which was taken, with much elaboration, from Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. The characters of Ali Baba and the beggar are not unlike, but I have remembered Skinner's interpretation of the beggar, while I have forgotten who played Ali.
Oh, he was marvelous! Or so the child thought. Beggar and wine-bibber though he was, there was a power about him that could be felt in everything he did. You should have seen the majesty with which he took his place upon his accustomed block of stone before the ?1osque:as though it were a throne-and the gesture with which he expelled a lesser beggar from it. And at the end, when the cycle is complete, when he has risen to power under the favor of the Caliph and been stricken down again, he takes his place once more upon the stone and, calml:7 wrapping himself in his rags, lies down to sleep.. C?ne 1s quite sure that his sleep will be untroubled. It 1s kismet, and cannot be changed. Nor does he even wish it otherwise. The will of Allah is the will of Allah. His accep( Continued on Page 24)
Puppet History
CATHERINE DAWSON
origin of marionettes 1s rather obscure, though it is probable that they had their birth in Italy about 1600 with Princella and Arlecchino, both of whom were descendants of comic actors at Rome. They were known to ancient Greece, Rome, China, Japan and Siam. Even the American Indians used articulated dolls in their ceremonial dances. Puppets are so human that they have been able to protray tragedies, comedies and political events. Their magic has fascinated people at all times.
These little creatures were first used in religious celebrations from which they derived the name "little Mary" or marionette.
By the seventeenth century in England they had become so popular that there were traveling shows which went to all parts of the country, carrying entertainment and instruction. When in 1642 all the theatres closed except those devoted to marionette production, the writers began to adapt their plays for that purpose. A young English gentleman who was very successful in puppet play was Mr. Powell, who wrote the Universal Deluge. This play showed the entrance of Noah, his family and the animals into the Ark. Powell was evidently a very ingenious young man, for he established his show opposite St. Paul's Cathedral in order to draw the weak-willed churchgoers from their original goal.
Though in France marionettes were driven from the church about the middle of the seventeenth century, they reappeared during the reign of Louis XIV. We are told that Jean Brioche, the father of a long line of puppet showmen, made an unusually profitable business of puppeteering by extracting teeth between performances. In Paris today, in the gardens of the Tuileries and in the Champs Elysees, children and their nurses enjoy GuignoL who is none other than Punch under one of his various other names.
The disagreement of clergy and stage was very profitable to marionettes in Germany, where in 1680 play by living actors was suppressed. Those who were thrown out of employment entered the service of puppet showmen and spoke lines to accompany the actions of the dolls.
Grethe acknowledged that he found his idea for Faust in marionette productions. There is now in Munich a municipal theater built for children. The edifice stands in one of the most beautiful parks and has about a thousand puppet actors.
Not only has there been a revival of marionettes in recent years, but likewise a change. They are no longer merely ludicrous creatures, but are artistic in shape and costume. Three men are now famous as creators of artistic puppets-Paul Brann in Munich, Gordon Craig in Florence, and Tony Sarg in New York.
Lucidity
Always turning sufficiently the stupidities
Sugared. I have sugared the steel bird
I have crushed him. Ah yes, I know!
He barked like a cow but I took his skin off
He wanted to hide in the drawer but I found him in the mist
He bit me. That is
why I open my eyes
Look to the back of my brain
Have no fear. What do you see there?
Sugared. I have sugared the steel bird
The bitter American bird No. 15
I have thrown him against the ceiling
There he stays who turns turning
-Paul Frederic Bowles.
Wind Dance
(A Play in One Act)
By CORINNE MORECOCK
Characters:
OLGA JOHN ROLLO
The place is anywhere in the world and at any time, past, present or future. The scene is laid in the small cool room of the home. At the back of the stage there is a large window with ruffled curtains. On one side of the window there is a large comfortable chair. The time is almost night. Outside can be seen the dark outline of trees moving slightly in the breeze. Olga enters. She is a tall, dark girl of twenty-four and there is a joyful expression on her face. She looks toward the window and sees the curtains moving and the dark trees swaying.
OLGA ( moving toward the window) : Oh! the wind is blowing.
(She raises her arms above her head and seems to be drinking in the wind. John, a dark, serious looking man of about twenty-seven, enters. He sees his sister standing in the window. She turns and looks at him.)
OLGA: Oh! John, the wind is blowing, our wind. It speaks plainer than I have ever heard it before. John, come and feel it. It is in my eyes. I can taste it.
(John goes quickly over to his sister. There is a gloomy expression on his face. He looks intently at his sister and answers sadly.)
JOHN: I feel the wind, but it chills me. Close the windows. (He puts his arm around her and draws her head to his shoulder.)
OLGA (looking quickly into his face) : John, what is wrong? Has anything happened?
(She goes forward and leans out of the window. The wind ruffs her hair and blows her garments back from her body. John goes over to the window and puts his hand on his sister's back.)
JOHN: But the wind chills me.
OLGA (turns and looks at him): John, dear, what is :vrong? Could there be anything wrong when Rollo has Just done something that will make us and everybody else happy?
JOHN (looks intently at Olga, starts to speak and then suddenly smiles, and makes his voice gayer; he seizes her
around the waist) : Happy? People will never be happy. Let us dance, Olga. Rollo will be back in a minute.
( They dance lightly with swaying movements. The wind blows harder and the trees sway back and forth until they almost touch the ground. The wind blows more violently. He looks away and shudders.)
JOHN: Olga, dance faster.
OLGA: Let's sway like the trees. 0 wind, twist us like you do the trees.
(They moved a little distance apart and sway from one side to the other. The stage grows darker.)
JoHN: How can the wind blow now?
OLGA: Why do you ask1that?
JOHN: Oh, nothing. I hear Rollo coming. Let's get the room lighted up and hear what he has to say.
( Olga goes over to the table and lights a candle. John pulls the chairs nearer together. Footsteps can be heard approaching from the left.)
OLGA: Oh, let's make a bow to him when he comes in and say, "I salaam to thee, 0 great one."
(Olga's face is beaming, but John's is very sad. They both stand in the middle of · the stage facing right. The door opens and Rollo enters. He is a tall, dark man of thirty years. He has a handsome, thoughtful face. Olga curtsies and John bows low; they repeat in unison, "All hail, Great One, we salaam to thee."
ROLLO (in a theatrical voice) : Arise, slaves, this is a great day, and I will now set you free.
( Olga goes over to Rollo, takes him by the hand, and makes him sit in the chair by the candle. She sits on the arm of his chair, and John sits nearby.)
OLGA: Rollo, now that you have made everybody in the world happy by burning up that old Book of Conventions, we will just rest. We can play out of doors for days and let the wind twirl us about. (She ruffs his hair with her hand.) Did you know that John and I were dancing just before you came in?
RoLLO (smiling) : What made you stop ? I should have liked to dance with you.
JOHN: You are too old and wise to dance.
ROLLO: Only wise people dance.
OLGA: Let's all dance.
]OHN: No, let's sit and talk.
OLGA: I am almost sorry that we don't have to worry about burning up that old book now. I loved to make plans how to do it. Rollo, I don't see how you ever did it.
RoLLo: Olga, you funny little girl! You and John did just as much as I did. It was just father's idea, the one he lived and died for.
OLGA (standing up): You did it. We could never have lived to see this. (She goes over to the window.) The wind blows. It has been everywhere, high up in the eaves of the sky; it has fanned the stars and the waves. I hear father's voice in its tune; he is laughing. He tells us to be happy. He says, "Rollo has freed all the people of the world. Rollo will be glorious."
ROLLO: What glory I get will belong as much to you all as it belongs to me.
JOHN: Glory? Are you sure the wind says glory? (He looks away and shudders.)
RoLLO: How nice it is to be here and to be free.
OLGA ( coming back near Rollo's chair) : This is the freest land. Here we can dance in the wind.
]OHN (sadly): We never know how free we are.
OLGA ( beginning to weep) : John, don't talk like that. You make me think of father's dying in a prison.
ROLLO: Olga, that could never happen now. People are tired of conventions, kings, and laws. They are different; they think for themselves.
JOHN: They do not yet.
ROLLO: John, you are too pessimistic. People will be glad that the Book of Conventions is burned. They are not like they were in father's time. Why, even most of them were glad when he burned the book. There were only a few who wanted to punish him.
JoHN: I wish I had never let you do it.
OLGA: Don't be silly. Everybody will be glad. Now let us all be happy, for soon all the people will be as happy and as free as we.
RoLLo: I hear the wind 1 blowing. Let's dance in it, the wind, the freest being of all.
OLGA: Soon all the people of the world will be as free as the wind. Oh, I love to feel it. It is in my eyes, my throat. It tells me that it will always worry me and I will never understand it.
( They all go over and stand near the window; the wind ruffs their hair. Suddenly there is a knock from the
left and a sudden gust of wind blows the candle out, and by the moonlight Olga's garments can be seen tossing wildly about)
JOHN ( in a whisper) : Don't light a candle. I will go to the door.
(He goes out left, and in the distance can be heard rough voices speaking. In a few seconds, they cease and John comes back with a worried expression on his face. Olga is standing near the candle which she has just lighted.) ·
OLGA: Who was it?
JOHN: They left before I got to the door; probably some drunkards who did not know what they were doing.
ROLLO: Well, never mind. I must go and read.
OLGA: I am going to walk out in the garden. Come on, John, I am too happy to sleep. (All three go out to right.)
( Curtain)
SCENE II
(The scene is the same. It is one o'clock in the morning. Olga and John are standing near.)
JOHN: Olga, sit down. I have a lot to tell you.
( Olga sits down, and John sits down facing her.)
OLGA: Go on, tell me.
JOHN (sadly): It is this; it almost kills me to talk about it.
OLGA: Oh, it must be about Rollo.
JOHN: Yes, tomorrow Rollo will be put in prison for twenty-five years. It is known who burned the book, and the officials have commanded that Rollo be put in prison.
OLGA (weeping) : It will kill him. I know it will. He thought that the people would love him and were ready for what he has done.
JOHN: The officials came here to get him tonight, but they saw no light and thought we were all away. They will come again tomorrow.
OLGA: John, it will be just as it was with father; he will die in prison, die in sorrow because people do not understand him, and what he has done for them.
JOHN: Yes.
OLGA: Why don't they understand?
JOHN: They never will. We must do something to save him.
OLGA: If he could only die happy as he is now.
JOHN: If he only could.
OLGA: Let's go out and walk in the garden m the
wind and think. Rollo, Rollo, the wind blows cool, the moon shines, and people cannot see that you love them.
JOHN: Listen to the wind. Father, speak to us. He is weeping, weeping for Rollo. He tells us that we should never have believed anything, that it will never happen. How the wind chills me!
OLGA (rubbing her forehead) : Father, oh Rollo, what can we do. We always lo se everything we love. How the wind hurts me.
( She sits down in the chair, bends her head in her arms, and is qui e t for 1 a few seconds.)
JOHN (taking his sist er by the hand): Come, Olga, we must go. We will come back in a half an hour.
(They go out hand in hand.)
( Curtain)
SCENE III
(Half-hour later. The sce ne is the same. Olga comes from the left and sits down by the window. In a few seconds John comes in from the left and stands in front of Olga )
OLGA: John, I think it would be best. (She starts weeping and puts her h ead down on her arms )
JOHN : What do you think is best?
OLGA: I can't say it. Oh, I wish it didn't have to happen.
JOHN: I'll say it, little sister. We must kill him while he is happy.
OLGA: Yes, down here by the window where the wind is blowing and he can see the moonlight on the trees.
JOHN: Yes, Olga, he would want it so.
OLGA: Father told me he spoke on the voice of the wind.
JOHN: He tolq, me, too. He said, "Never let Rollo suffer what I suffered."
OLGA: We must, John. We will never remember him any other way than as our wonderful loving Rollo. He will always talk to us on the wind as father does. We will always have him just as he is now-he will be happy.
JOHN: Corne, Olga, we must do it before morning. You call him down here. I will be ready.
( Olga goes out. John takes a little bottle from his Pocket and puts a few drops in a glass of wine which he has Poured out. Footsteps are 1 heard. Olga and Rollo enter from the right. Rollo looks a little sleepy. Olga is very sad.)
JOHN: Rollo, we called you. We are too happy to sleep, and we want you to come and be with us.
ROLLO (sitting in chair in front of window) : I was glad to get up. I am tired of sleeping. How cool and sweet the wind is.
OLGA ( sitting on the arm of Rollo's chair) : Yes, it is lovely, it feels so clean and fresh. Just as we used to say when we were children; it came from the top of the sky. It has seen everything in the world.
]OHN: It is dancing with the trees and the moonlight.
RoLLo: Let's dance with it, too. I wish father were here with us.
JOHN: Don't you hear him telling us to dance and be happy?
( They all three put their arms around each other and stand in front of the window. They move lightly from side to side. The candle flickers slightly.)
JoHN: Let's drink some of the old wine in honor of the occasion.
RoLLO: Yes, Wind, Wine, Moonlight!
OLGA: Sit down, Rollo. You are the guest of honor. (He sits down in the chair. She goes behind the chair and puts her arms around his neck and kisses his hair. John comes back with the glass of wine which he has previously fixed and sets it down on the arm of the chair. He sits down on the floor in front of Rollo.)
RoLLo: I am saying something few people ever say. I have now all that I have ever wanted, love of you and love of all the people.
J oirn (looking intently at him) : Yes.
OLGA: To have lived, really lived, fifteen minutes with the wind and moonlight as we have done tonight is enough for a king.
RoLLo: No king can ever live as joyfully as we have lived.
JOHN: No, never. (Olga kisses Rollo's hair again.)
OLGA: Rollo, there is your wine. (She picks up the glass and gives it to him.)
JOHN: Drink your wine, Rollo.
HELLO: Yes, I will. (He holds the glass for a mine ute, looks out of the window, then puts it to his lips and drinks.) This is delightful wine. Soon we can visit the countries where the wine came from. We can do anything we want to.
JOHN: We will never leave.
OLGA: Please let's not leave this place. ( Continued on Page 24)
FOURTEEN }Bt--
Light and Shadow
By GENEVA H. BENNETT
Characters:
LEONARDODA VINCI.
LODOVICOSPORZA,Duke of Milan.
MASCARILLO.
PRIOR OF SANTA MARIA DELLEGRAZIE.
ANDREA SALAINO,Page of Leonardo.
ZoROASTRODA PERTOLO,Pupil of Leonardo.
JACOPO,Chief Violer.
BEATRICE,Duchess of Milan.
ISABELLA,Sister to Beatrice.
BIANCA, Daughter to Lodovico.
TRAVELER, ATTENDANTS upon the Duchess, SERVANTS,MONKS.
Time, 1494.
SCENE I
Garden of the Duke of Milan's castle at Vigevano. ( In the background is a marble arcade of graceful arches and delicate columns. Through the arches may be seen the castle with its traceried windows. In center stage is a sparkling fountain edged with yellow and amethyst iris. Two sandy walks radiate from the fountain, one leading to the right back corner, the other to the left front corner. There is a group of cypress trees in the right back corner near the arcade. At front right is a bed of white lilies. To right center of fountain is a rustic seat heaped with pillows. To the left back is a large acacia tree in blossom. Left center is a long table with silver cloth on it, bowls of fruit, crystal glasses, and other evidences of a banquet. The grass is like an emerald carpet with peacocks strutting about. It is the hour just before sunset and the stage is covered with a golden glow. There is a Saracenic atmosphere over all. As the curtain rises we see several servants bringing benches and preparing the table. They exit left and we see a tall man with hair over his shouldrs, dressed in blue, enter from the right. He plays softly on a silver lyre shaped like a horse's head. This is Leonardo. At his heels is his little page, Andrea Salaino, in green and rose and a silver loak. Leonardo strolls leisurely to the bench and sits down, still playing on the lyre. After patting the pillows Andrea timidly sits at the feet of his master. Leonardo seems all unconscious of his presence. In the middle of a strain he looks down at Andrea and stops his music. He lays the
lyre on the seat, takes Andrea by the knape of the neck and jerks him to his feet.)
LEON.: What, you rogue! Where did you get that cloak? Speak up.
ANDREA (piteously) : I-I bought it. I-I found the money on your table. I didn't think you'd mind, master. (He strokes the cloak.)
LEON.: I drag you from the gutter and you are not content to wear what I give you?
ANDREA: Please, master, I do remember what you have done. But may I keep--
LEON.: Enough! The memory of benefits teaches ingratitude; it is fragile. Keep the cloak. Here is the Duke.
(Lodovico enters from the left, dressed in red and white, and wearing many jewels. He is tall with a dark complexion. As he approaches, Leonardo and Andrea bow courteously.)
LODOVICO: Ah, my good Leonardo! And did you have a pleasant journey? How is Milan?
LEON.: All was well when I left, sir. The road was very dusty.
LoDO.: Sit down, my friend. (Leonardo sits on the bench. Andrea stands behind. Lodovico paces the grass.) I must get my business over with before the Duchess comes. I want you to paint a portrait of Cecilia. I know it is only one of those queer little whims of mine, but I must have her portrait. When can you do it? I hope you can stay here a while. I should like to have it painted here, here in the garden. She belongs here with these flowers.
LEON.: I have business in Milan.
Lono.: That does not matter. Beatrice is returning to the city tomorrow. It will be quite safe and proper because you will be here. Cecilia says she will come when you are ready. We shall have a merry time.
LEON.: The lovely Cecilia!
LoDo. : Sh-h ! The Duchess.
(Beatrice, Duchess of Milan, enters from righi with her attendants. She has a dark complexion, a soft, babyish face. She is dressed in gold, broidered with pearls. She is accompanied by Isabella, golden-haired and dark-eyed. Isabella wears lavender and diamonds.)
BEATRICE (smiling at Leonardo and giving him her hand) : And who is this lovely Cecilia?
LEON. (rising and bowing low over her hand) : And how is the sweetest lady in Italy?
BEATRICE: My sister Isabella has just arrived from Mantua. She will join our little party.
LEON. (bowing to Isabella): Welcome to Pavia, Queen of Diamonds.
ISABELLA( much pleased; to Lodovico) : having Messer Leonardo come to Mantua. such pretty speeches.
Looo.: He likes Milan too well. I insist on He makes
IsAB. (to Leon.): Wouldn't you like to come to Mantua? I should give you a most enjoyable timedancing, music, a few interesting people.
LEON.: I thank you, but I like the atmosphere of Milan. To me it is a cluster of rubies caught in iron and gold. The mingling of pleasure and depravity, dancers and armourers--
IsAB.: Oh, Mantua can be as wicked as you like, and as beautiful as a virgin.
LEON.: But Milan has rich veils observing her beauty. One must look deep to find it. I love the passive sweetness of her streets at night, the rainy lights suffusing the clouds of amber and violet. Her green evening skies soothe me. Her feverish patterns of existence, her riots and corruption, hidden among her beauty, fascinate me. She is like a beautiful dragon, sleeping, but when aroused she is more alluring than ever.
lSAB. (arrogantly) : Mantua may even claim you more. I am not accustomed to having my desires thwarted. But I see you love Milan as Lodovico does the convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie.
Looo.: Where is my little Bianca?
BEAT.: Have patience; she is coming. Some day your little bird will escape from her cage and fly away.
Looo.: Don't, Beatrice. I love her too much.
( They all walk over to the table and sit down, Lodovico at one end and Beatrice at the other. Leonardo is in the middle with Isabella on his left. Beatrice's attendants exit right; !Andrea stands behind Leonardo. A dwarf in Persian dress and other servants bring steaming dishes and decanters of wine. Bianca enters. She is little more than a child, tall, slender and graceful. She has auburn hair and wears white satin with touches of green, a pearl net over her hair, and a long silken veil. She has a quaint, crooked smile. Lodovico jumps up and leads her by the hand to Leonardo, who rises and bows.)
Looo.: It has been a long time since you have seen my most priceless possession on- earth, Leonardo. (Bianca takes her seat on Leonardo's right, and Leonardo and Lodovico sit down.)
LEON.: No. You keep her safely hidden from the eyes of the world.
Looo.: Yes. From the eyes of the wicked world.
( They seat. Five violers enter and station themselves near the table. They pray softly.)
Looo.: Coming from Milan here is like a pleasant dream after an unpleasant day.
BEAT.: And I return to Milan tomorrow. How I should love to stay here!
Looo.: But you are expected there. You must attend the festival.
BEAT.: What does it matter if I prefer to stay here?
Looo.: But you must go.
BEAT.: I am not Duke of Milan. Oh, you wish to get me ouf of the way. Little do you care if I return to that den of assassins. Why do you not watch over me as you do Bianca? But I shall do as you wish. I go tomorrow.
IsAB.: Why, we shall see all the latest styles at the festival. Messer Leonardo shall be busy designing patterns for our sleeves. I have an idea for one now. Would not a lily be pretty on green satin?
LEON.: I shall be delighted.
BEAT.: And I want something like that peacock's plumage yonder.
LEON.: I fear I shall be very busy indeed.
IsAB.: This is excellent; wine, Lodovico. Where did you find your musicians, sister?
BEAT.: They were traveling through the city and came to the castle. I was attracted tol Jacopo. He composes.
IsAB.: You must lend them to me some time.
Looo.: All my court shall go to Mantua if you keep on, Isabella.
IsAB.: And how is your architect, Braman ti, Lodovico? I thought he should be here tonight.
Looo.: He is dull to have around for an evening.
IsAB.: Oh, so you have a new favorite. Is it Giovanni or Gasparo now?
Looo.: No, do not speak of Giovanni. He is a scoundrel.
BEAT.: I knew it from the beginning.
IsAB.: Why, what has he done?
Looo.: He tried to buy the abbotship of Santa Maria
delle Grazie. First he brought vile charges against the Reverend Father, and when I proved them false, he offered me money for the position. Bah! I never want to see him again.
IsAB.: Your court changes so often, I cannot keep up with it. It is quite refreshing to come from dear old Mantua and meet all the se learned like Messer Leonardo here, Corio the poet, Gasparo and all the others. Such a very brilliant court!
Lono.: May it be said of II Moro that he has the most brilliant court in Italy. Milan, the gem of Italy, another Athens? But come let us forget that cold formality and charm, the intrigues and conspiracies. This is a little holiday!
(They rise from the table. Servants enter and place pillows on the grass and remove the table and benches. They recline on the pillows in Eastern fashion. The dwarf comes up to Lodovico.)
DWARF: A traveler to see the Duke of Milan.
BEAT.: Tell him to return tomorrow.
Lono.: What is his business?
DWARF: He would not say. He seems quite old and weary.
Lono.: Show him in.
( The dwarf exits and returns followed by a stooped old man. The traveler looks at all of them and then salaams before Lodovico and hands him a letter.)
BEAT. (impatiently): Don't let's be bothered by any business.
Lono. (finishing the letter) : This is only a little pleasure. ( To the traveler) : Who gave you this letter?
TRAVELER: The King of Naples, as you can see there, Sir.
Lono.: I know the king's handwriting. ( The traveler begins to shake.) This is not his. This is a forgery. I can imprison you for this. ( The old man gets on his knees and mutters to himself.)
IsAB.: Do tell us what is in the letter, brother.
Lono.: Well, rascal, let us see your famous jewel. It is true that we Milanese are very fond of priceless gems.
BEAT.: A jewel! Oh, let me see it.
( The old man stands up and brings out a bag from beneath his cloak. He places the bag on the grass and the jewel on the bag. All of them kneel about the gem in a circle.) ,.
TRAVELER: The sacred ruby of Persia. I will sell
BEAT.: Oh, it would look exquisite with my new gown. Do buy it, Lodovico.
IsAB.: Oh, I do not think it is so beautiful. I have seen much prettier ones.
BEAT.: Look at the lights in it, Messer Leonardo. Is it not beautiful?
Lono.: How did this stone come into your possession, stranger?
TRAVELER: The great Khan gave it to me after I brought him back to health again with a magic herb.
Lono.: I don't think much of that story.
TRAVELER:How much will you give me for the gem?
Lono.: How much you think it is worth, Leonardo?
LEON.: I do not think it is a genuine stone. To me it is worth nothing.
BEAT.: But it is so beautiful.
LEON.: Look at it more closely, Lodovico.
(Lodovico takes the gem in his hand.)
Lono.: You are right, Leonardo. There 1s a flaw here.
LEON.: It looks like a garnet to me.
Lono.: I know little about stones. I take your word for it, Leonardo. Here, take your gem and go. Were it not for your age, I should throw you in the dungeon. (He chases the old man off stage.) Liar! Thief!
( T lzey all take their places on the pillows as before.)
BEAT.: And I wanted it so much.
IsAB.: I thought it was quite ugly. Lodovico will buy you a much prettier one.
Lono.: They follow me even here. I cannot avoid such schemers. The world is full of them.
BIANCA: Father, I am glad you did not buy it. We have more precious jewels right here in the garden. Look at the sun on those lilies. They look like mother-of-pearl.
Lono.: Yes, it is like a bit of fairyland. This might well be a Persian garden.
IsAB.: Would not our artist guest like to put this on canvas?
BEAT.: Oh, it is not ladies in brocades, satins, and jewels that he puts on his canvasses. He prefers simplicity, soft falling raiment with some sparkle.
LEON.: Dear lady, do not reprove me. I try to put down folj posterity those who would otherwise be forgotten. You will be remembered for yourself, not a portrait of you.
BIANCA: How is your work on "The Last Supper," it very cheap to you, Il Moro. Messer?
LEON. : Not so well, I fear.
LODO.: Yes, I meant to speak to you about that. The prior tells me that you spend half your time in thought. It will never be finished at this rate.
LEON.: Men of g enius really do most when they work least. Often when the prior comes in, I do not see him, so d eep in thought am I. The ideas mu st be thought out and the conceptions discovered.
BIANCA: Oh, I am sure it is excellent. Father, when m ay I g o to Milan and see it?
LoDO.: Do you really wish to see it, little bird? You may be disappointed.
L EON.: It would be better to wait until it is finished.
BIANCA: No, I must see it soon. I want to see you a t work on it.
LEON.: The prior says I do not work. I tell you, Lodov ico, I can go no further until I find a man to pose for Judas. I have been lookin g for him for three year s Now I can do no more 1until I find him.
LoDo.: The picture mu st be fini shed. Who knows but what the assassin's knife m ay keep me from seeing its completion? Oh, I cannot stand the thought.
BEAT.: Yes, only the other day on the way to mass there wa s a riot in the streets. Had it not been for the guard, I should be a widow. As a horrible wretch leaped a t him with knife in hand, the g uard knocked him to the ground. I have had a nightmare every night since.
IsAB : And I die of boredom at Mantua.
LoDO.: You must finish the picture, friend. A Judas mu st be found. Forget your flying machines and canals. Think no longer of patterns , for these ladies' sleeves. What are they to the saving of Lodovico;s soul? The convent is a very part of me. Santa Maria delle Graziethe very name is music to my ears. How dear to me are her triple nave, medallions, and arcades!
BEAT.: Would that you love me as much!
ISAB.: Jealous woman!
LEON,: But where shall I find a Judas? If I do not find one, I shall paint the head of our prior. With a few more lines and curves he would make a fine Judas.
LoDo.: Ha, ha! That would be a splendid joke. Bu~ I'm sure you can find a better one.
LEON.: Yes, a criminal, one who has lived the life, one whose expression of the emotions is unfettered by convention. But I do not think I can find a man who could resolve to betray his Master, and, if I might, I could not express such a face.
LoDo.: Surely there must be such a man alive somewhere. But where? Are you sure you have looked everywhere?
IsAB.: Perhaps you could find one in the dungeons. They are teeming with vice and sin. But why be serious on so glorious an evening? Let us have some dancing.
LEON.: The dungeons! I had not thought of them.
LoDo.: Oh, there you shall find your Judas. Only the other day Niccolo told me the castle dungeon was full. We will all go to Milan tomorrow. Soon you shall see Leonardo at work on the greatest criminal of all times, my little Bianca.
(] acopo leaves his musicians and comes over to the gr?uP on the grass. He bows before Beatrice.)
JACOPO: Dear lady, if Signora Isabella will dance, I have something new for your pleasure.
LoDO.: Do dance for us, Isabella.
IsAB.: If it pleases Messer 1 Leonardo?
LEON.: Do not keep me in suspense.
( The music begins and Isabella dances a gay, zestful danc e typical of her. When she finishes, they all rise from the grass and applaud. The light is growing dim.)
LoDO.: The sun has set. Let us have more music in the castle. (The three ladies exit right.)
LODO. ( whispering to Leonardo) : Cecilia must wait. I must have her portrait, but the "Last Supper" must be completed first. Oh, dear friend, how much that picture means to me!
LEON. (shrugging his shoulders) : As you will. ( They exit right. Leonardo speaks over his shoulder to Andrea) : Bring the lyre, Andrea. (Andrea exits, strumming on the lyre.)
(Curtain)
SCENE III
( Refectory of the Santa Maria delle Grazie. The room is long, high, and vaulted. In upper part of the wall at back stage there are six square headed windows, letting in the early morning sun. The floor is brick. On the right wall is a marble inlay and a tapestry. Right back is a door. A platform is across the left end of stage. There are two steps leading up. On it may be seen a portion of a scaffold and a table. The room extends off stage to the left. Long tables and benches fill thr~efourths of the room to the right. They are parallel with the front of stage. To the left back is a small table on which Zoroastro mixes colors. As the curtain rises we see him very busy at the table. A monk at prayer faces
EIGHTEEN }gt-to the left. The door at right opens and the prior and Lodovocio enter. Then follow Beatrice, Isabella and Bianca.)
PRIOR: One day he paints on it all day without a mouthful of food and the next day he comes here, mounts the scaffold, gives one little dab of the brush, comes down and goes away. I cannot understand him.
Looo.: You should not try to understand him. He is an artist. (The monk rises and exits right.)
PRIOR: If I ask him when it will be finished, he says he will paint me as Judas. Surely you would not allow that.
Looo. {laughing) : Don't worry about that. He has found a Judas.
PRIOR: Oh, I am so relieved!
IsAB.: Oh, do tell us what kind of a man he chose.
BEAT.: Is he ugly?
Looo.: Well, no. His face is very powerful. I think he has chosen well.
IsAB.: What is it like in the dungeon? I should so much like to see it.
Looo.: It is very dark and dirty. Quite a horrible place! There were ten men in their one little cell. They had all been there a long time with the exception of this Mascarello whom Leonardo chose.
BEAT.: What kind of a man is he?
Looo.: He has a very proud and haughty manner. His being a criminal has deprived him of none of his pride. Oh, Beatrice, I quite forgot to tell you. When I went into the cell, I thought I recognized the face of this Mascarello. Niccolo told me that it was he who tried to take my life in the riot the other day.
BEAT.: Why, yes, I do remember. He did have a wonderful face, a face that showed underneath its horribleness something finer.
Looo.: Yes. He was very restless in the cell, like a raging lion eager for its prey. His face haunts me. His expression is like one sent by the devil.
IsAB.: Why did Leonardo choose such a man?
Looo.: I have not the slightest idea. After he had studied him in different poses, he seemed quite willing not to look further.
BEAT.: I should be afraid to have such a man near me.
Looo.: When Leonardo finishes with him, he may be changed. Leonardo hopes that the picture may help this criminal.
IsAB.: Huh! The criminal may help Messer Leonardo.
(Leonardo enters. He is wearing purple.)
LEON.: Has Juda s been here?
Looo.: Not yet. But let us see what you have done since we have been at Vigevano.
(Loen. goes up steps of platform and off to left Then he comes back with a sheet which he throws over in a corner. They all face the left.)
BIANCA: Oh, how lovely!
Looo.: Oh, you have pro g ressed. I can see their faces now. Who is that with his arm flung out!
LEON.: St. Jame s the Greater.
Looo : And who is that on the right of Christ?
LEON.: That is John.
Looo.: Their gestures are remarkable.
ZoROASTRO(stopping to look at the picture): Yes, and they're all so different.
LEON.: The gestures are the key to each character. A painter has two objects to paint: man and the intention of the soul. It is a matter of the movement of the head and shoulder, the turn of a wrist, the curve of a lip, the twisting corners of the mouth that show what a figure has in its mind.
Looo. : Where will Judas be?
LEON.: Next to John. He will clasp a money bag.
Looo.: I wonder how I should have acted, had I been present at that moment?
IsAB. : You'd never have been one of the twelve Apostles.
Looo.: But why have you not done more on the face of Christ?
BIANCA: There seems to be a veil over it.
LEON.: I shall never finish it. I dare not. There is nothing in me that can give it the celestial divinity it demands.
Looo.: Just the outline of His face has a divinity about it.
IsAB. (indifferently) : Some day, Messer, you may paint a famous picture.
BIANCA: How I wished that I may see it finished!
BEAT.: It is quite pretty, but it still has some defects.
Looo.: You cannot appreciate its beauty. It has already won fame.
(A monk enters and comes up to Leonardo.)
(Continued on Page 20)
In This Issue
JOHN FENRIS is an obscure philosophic gentleman little known on this campus. He spends his time by ordinary annotating the Vedantic Books, composing quiet essays and ruminative sketches, and in leisure study of the Eastern metaphysics.
B. A. ROQUE is of vast wordly acquaintance, having circulated prodigally through the capitals of Europe during the better part of a decade. His charm, his suave cosmopolitan ease, and his unique contacts with celebrities have caused him to be known among the elite as the Paul Morand of America.
ELIZABETH GILL is familiar equally in the Greek Theatre and in the pages of THE MESSENGER.
CATHERINE DAWSON is an Ibsenite and a Shavian, a truly Advanced Woman; yet her literary preferences remain delicate and wistfully humble; and her affection for marionettes charming.
PAUL FREDERICBowLES has published in this country in blues, The Morada and the Virginia Spectator; in Mexico in Palms; in France in transition and Tam hour; in Belgium in Anthologie; and in Monaco in This Quarter. His unintelligibles are esteemed highly among the esoteric.
CORINNE l\1IoRECOCK has been contributing to THE MESSENGERwith rather unique and applaudable regularity. Her stories and plays are always among the best "\Vesthampton material.
GENEVA BENNETT too is not unknown. Her Renaissance play of Leonardo da Vinci included in this issue has an exquisite fragrance of Italian gardens inset with magnificent fountains.
BRUCE MORRISSETTE publishes his verse ordinarily in THE MESSENGER. When asked whether he were a student of the Chinese language, he replied negatively, and hinted dubiously at the assistance of a laundry-man in reducing the original Chinese into crude Eng1i sh, which he subsequently refined.
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LIGHT AND SHADOW
(Continued from Page 18)
MONK: A man asks for you at the door. He will not enter the building.
LEON: Tell him I said to come here. You show him the way.
( The monk exits. Zoroastro picks up the sheet and exits left.)
ZoRo.: This dampness of the morning is not good for your picture, sir.
Lono.: It is Mascarello. Please finish it now, dear friend. It is my greatest wish. And if I do not live to see it completed, let it be known to the world that it was I who ordered its painting. Work for your life, Leonardo.
(Exit Prior, Lodovocio and ladies.)
LEON. ( to Zoroastro) : Are you ready for work?
ZoRo.: That I am, master.
( The monk enters with Mascarello. The monk exits.)
LEON. ( to Zoroastro) : I will need more oil today.
(Exit Zoroastro.)
LEON.: Mascarello, you are to treat me as a friend. To you I am only Leonardo. To me you are not an outcast, but a fellow-man. But for one moment you must reveal your soul to me, the blackness of your life.
MASC.: Are you the artist, Leonardo, the favorite of Il Moro?
LEON.: I am only a dauber of canvasses. Perhaps Il Moro likes me. If he does, it is for his own glorification. But tell me, how did you get into the dungeon? What was your crime?
MASC.: I don't see why I should tell you.
LEON.: Oh, come, I want you to tell me. We cannot be friends if you do not confide in me. If you will not let me know, I must send you back to the dungeon.
MASC.: Niccolo told you.
LEON.: But I want you to tell me.
MASC.: Yes, you wish to laugh at me. You! are like the rest of the world.
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LEON.: But I cannot use you if I cannot see your real self.
MAsc. (proudly) : I tried to kill the duke. I was the leader in a riot. He has gold, jewels, magnificence all around him, while we starve. What does he1care for justice, what does he care for anything but his ·own glorification? Even you say that is why he orders you to paint. But he will not long enjoy his position. If my knife does not find the spot, perhaps there will be another who seeks revenge. Perhaps it will be I who shall see him shed the first drop of blood.
LEON.: But why do you seek revenge? Do you not know that love is the most priceless jewel of the world?
MASC.: I was an engineer four years ago. Because one of my workmen made a slight mistake in the building of a bridge, he saw to it that I had no work. I had a sick wife and two children. My wife was dying for want of food. I could find no one who was willing to give me work. A clever thief makes a good living. It became my profession. I rejoiced at every opportunity to take something from the duke or his friends. Life and property were nothing to me. I took one as readily as the other. At first it was hard. I was not accustomed to that kind of life. I soon became a different man. The thought of Il Moro is like poison to me. He has become a veritable devil in my sight. He took away from me everything good in life. Even you were my friend. I knew all the men in his court. He deprived me of my very soul ; he has shown ' me the uselessness of a soul, and in that I am thankful. He showed me the hypocrisy in the world. But I must have my revenge for all my suffering.
LEON.: Then you do not fear death? You know you must pay for such a deed.
MAsc.: I have already faced death.
LEON.: But what will you have accomplished in life?
MAsc.: What does that matter? My revenge is all I want.
LEON.: As a well spent day brings happy sleep, so life well used brings happy death. But why do you not ask why I chose you to come here?
MASC.: You will tell me that when you are ready.
LEON.: I want to paint you. I have been looking for you for three years.
MAsc.: But why should you want me? (Sneering.) As an example of sin to the world, I suppose.
LEON.: I want you to pose as Judas in my picture here. Have you not heard of "The Last Supper"?
MAsc.: And do I return to the dungeon when you are finished with me?
PRINTING
LEON.: You will do as you wish. You are no longer a prisoner. I will not need you long, for your face is already so graven on my mind. I could never forget it.
MASC.: So I am to be your Judas Iscariot! But let me see the picture.
(Exit Leonardo left on platform and returns with the sheet which he places on the table. M ascarello looks at the picture for several seconds. Leonardo watches his face as it agonizes. M arcarello dashes toward the left and falls half prostrate on the floor.)
MASC.: It is I! It is I! Do you know me, Leonardo?
LEON. (stoops over him and helps him to his feet): I never saw you before yesterday. (Mascarello has a wild look.) He must be crazed. I'd better call someone.
MASC.: No, Leonardo. I am a sane man. Do you not remember? I am your. Christ there. Five years ago I stood here and you painted this same for for the Holy One.
LEON.: It is impossible. You cannot be the same.
MASC.: I was here the day that the Cardinal came to see your picture. You and he compared many old pictures with this one. (Leonardo shakes his head.) Don't you remember? I could never straighten my little finger here on my left hand. You called me "Crooked Finger" in jest.
LEON.: Ah, I do remember now. The duke sent you on a commission to erect a bridge in Pavia. You never returned and I have never finished Christ's face. You had the only face that had any similarity to my conception of His face. But your leaving made no difference. I realized then that I could never finish it.
(Zoroastro enters carrying a bottle.)
ZoRo.: Here is your oil, master.
LEON.: Now we can begin. (He leads M ascarello to a bench by a table and has him sit down.) Let me have your money bag, Zoroa stro. (Zoroastro brings a little bag to his master. Leonardo puts the bag in Mascarello's hand and arranges Mascarello in a withdrawing attitude, facing the left.) Now, my friend, it is the money in this bag that will restore your wife to health. You must have it. Ah, that is fine. My materials, Zoroastro.
(Leonardo sits,_opposite and a little to the right. Zoroastro brings paper and charcoal and places them before Leonardo and stands watching. Leonardo works, glancing now and then at his model. M ascarello sits motionless. Finally Leonardo '.stops work, puts his arm on the table and his chin in his hand. He studies Mascarello a few
moments. He jumps to his feet and goes around table to Mascarello.)
LEON.: Mascarello, you shall regain your soul. I have a plan. Put the things away, Zoroastro. I cannot work any more today. (Mascarello stands.) You shall have again your place in Lodovico's court.
MASC.: I did not come here for a sermon.
LEON.: I am working now on a canal for Milan, and I need your help. Will you help me, friend?
MASC.: I care nothing for Milan. It has given me nothing but pain.
LEON.: It may yet bring you happiness. You are an engineer.
MASC.: I was an engineer. I am nothing but the carrier of a dagger now.
LEON.: The canal must have a bridge at the entrance to the city. I shall build the canal and you the bridge. We can work together.
MASC.: Do you think Lodovico will cross a bridge that I build ?
LEON.: He will if I say so. Here is your chance to become his chief engineer again. He is planning many new roads and bridges. It will mean position, wealth, and all the best things of life for you. (Leonardo puts his hand on Mascarello's shoulder. Mascarello stares beyond him.) Do not fail me. If you will not do it for me, and if you care nothing for me, do it for yourself.
MASC.: That cannot pay for the last four years.
LEON.: You must forget them. You are another man now.
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still a criminal, and a criminal I shall remain until I have my revenge. (Leonardo goes toward him.) No, do not try to win me over with your affected ways. Save them for Lodovico's court. There is nothing on earth that can change me from my purpose. (He starts toward the door.)
LEON.: Wait, Mascarello. You will return tomorrow? It is the duke's orders that if you do not sit for me as Judas, you must return to the dungeon.
MASC.: I shall return if you say nothin g more about your wild proposition. It is impossible! (He pulls out a dagger from under his ragged cloak and branishes it in the air.) This is thirsty for Il Moro's blood. Its thirst shall soon be quenched. Oh! Revenge! (He looks toward the picture off-stage, lowers his arm holding the dagger, smiles and falls in a heap on the floor by the door.)
LEON. (runs over to him, looks at him and then addresses the picture) : Ah, this may be your only mission in the world. Yet my effort is not wasted. Perhaps "The Last Supper" has saved one man's soul.
( Curtain)
RECOLLECTIONS OF OTIS SKINNER
( Continued from Page 9)
tance of fate is so unque st ioning and complete; fatality is to him so absolutely sure, that he becomes a part of fate itself, not conquered, but conquering, not weak, but superlatively strong.
That is how my hero-worship of Otis Skinner began. How long it lasted, actively, I don't remember. I seldom think of him now, and for a long time I have not even heard his name. But whenever I do, tha~ is what comes back to me-an impression of power, almost of omnipotence, that is good to have in these dead-level days.
WIND DANCE
(Continued from Page 13)
ROLLO: But I want to go on a trip. (He leans back in his chair. Olga takes his hand in hers.) I do believe I am drowsy. How cool and sweet the wind is. I seem to hear father calling me.
JOHN: He is calling you.
RoLLO: I feel like I am riding on the wind. The wind that we love.
(Rollo closes his eyes and his hands relax limply to his sides. John jumps up quickly from the floor, puts his hand on Rollo's forehead,· then he and Olga both lean over and kiss Rollo. A puff of wind blows out the candle, and the two bending figures can be dimly seen by the moonlight as the curtain falls.)
