Mikhail Kuzmin (1872-1936), poet, novelist and short-story writer, dramatist, composer, critic and translator, was born in Yaroslavl, where his family belonged to the local gentry. Failure to complete his studies (1891-94) at the St. Petersburg Conservatory, where Rimsky-Korsakov and Liadov were among his teachers, led to Wanderjahre in Italy and Egypt. Returning home, he became absorbed in Russian antiquity, accompanying Old Believers on their expeditions to the provinces in search of ancient icons. These early experiences found expression in the largely autobiographical novel Wings (1906) and the free verse poems of the Alexandrian Songs (1907), both first published in the Symbolist journal The Scales. Wings, with its bold defense of homosexual love, gained its author some notoriety—there was even an attempt (fortunately unsuccessful) to organize a boycott of his work. Nets (1908), Kuzmin’s first book of poems, established him once and for all as a new and individual voice in Russian poetry. A skilled performer of his own songs at the piano, Kuzmin was the favored entertainer of artistic and bohemian St. Petersburg. Close to Diaghilev and his World of Art circle of aesthetes, painters and musicians, Kuzmin was also a frequenter of Viacheslav Ivanov’s “Tower”—which became between 1907 and 1912 his permanent residence. Kuzmin’s initial enthusiasm for the October Revolution was of short duration; he remained in the Soviet Union, however, scraping a living as a translator (of, among others, Apuleius, Boccaccio, Shakespeare, Mérimée, Henri de Régnier and Anatole France). As late as 1929 he contrived to publish the wonderful long poem The Trout Breaks the Ice, in which he remains quite uncompromisingly himself. We may suppose that he was fortunate to die in a hospital bed, since his companion of more than twenty years, the writer Yury Yurkun, was arrested and shot two years later.
“Kuzmin is a writer unique of his kind. There was no one like him in Russia before, and I do not know whether there will be in time to come”—Blok’s words, written at the outset of Kuzmin’s literary career, still seem valid. His early poetry, deliberately “minor” in its celebration of evanescent everyday pleasures, had a welcome lightness of heart and touch amid the portents and prophesies of Symbolism. His prose, with its tendency toward stylization and turning away from psychology, had a sophisticated simplicity that seemed to hark back to Pushkin. It would be wrong, however, to stereotype Kuzmin—as literary histories have tended to—simply as a poet of exquisite trifles and exponent of the “beautiful clarity” he advocated in a famous manifesto; his later work—dense, elliptical, oblique—is often difficult and demanding.
Much of Kuzmin’s work for the theatre (and the list runs to over thirty items) had the nature of divertissement—pastorals, operettas, pantomimes, ballets, masquerades, children’s plays, plays for puppets. Many of these pieces (some of which survive as no more than intriguing titles) were intended for St. Petersburg’s little experimental theatres, such as Meyerhold’s House of Interludes, or the intimate cabarets frequented by poets and artists, such as the Stray Dog and its successor, the Players’ Rest. Admitting that Kuzmin’s plays, for all their mastery of dialogue and scenic grace, had failed to gain a foothold outside the little theatres, the drama critic of Apollo, writing in 1916, awarded them “the leading place in our theatre of underground classics.”
Kuzmin’s first attempt at playwriting, the amorphous “dramatic poem” The History of the Knight d’Alessio (1905), a potpourri of reminiscences from Faust, Peer Gynt, Tannhäuser, Pushkin’s Little Tragedies, Die Zauberflöte, The Tempest and no doubt other things beside, is an ambitious failure. But by the Three Plays of 1907 Kuzmin has clearly found his characteristic style; fragile miniatures that mingle verse with prose and song with dance, these entertainments—The Dangerous Precaution, Two Shepherds and a Nymph in a Hut, The Choice of a Bride—are subtitled respectively “comedy with singing,” “pastoral for a masquerade” and “comedy ballet” and suggest the stylized rococo of such World of Art painters as Somov, Sapunov and Sudeikin (all close friends of Kuzmin’s). The Dangerous Precaution, an adroit minuet of sexual identities, was found shocking enough by the censorship to cause the little volume’s confiscation.
The Three Comedies (1908) are perhaps Kuzmin’s most consummate achievement as a dramatist. Blok pronounced The Comedy of Eudoxia of Heliopolis (a treatment of the favorite fin de siècle theme of the saintly courtesan) to be “the most perfect creation in the field of Russian lyrical drama,” and Mirsky has called The Comedy of Alexis “the most exquisite” of Kuzmin’s plays. Kuzmin here is using the word “comedy” in its archaic sense of “mystery play,” and like Remizov in his mysteries he draws on Russia’s ancient holy tales—but to very different effect: at once lucid and enigmatic, the Comedies hold refined irony and naive piety in perfect equipoise.
“The Venice of Goldoni, Gozzi and Longhi” is the setting specified by the author for his comedy The Venetian Madcaps. For Meyerhold and his circle, late eighteenth-century Venice was the golden age of pure theatricality they were seeking to revive. Venice and the commedia dell’arte, particularly in the fantastic aspect represented by Gozzi, became the object of a cult. It was Kuzmin who originally composed the music for the culminating production of
Meyerhold’s commedia dell’arte phase, that of Lermontov’s Masquerade, on which the director worked from 1911 until 1917 (a new score was later commissioned from Glazunov), and it may be that work on Lermontov’s melodrama of jealousy and murder, fate and retribution in a setting suggestive of Venice inspired him to produce one of his own (curiously, Blok too at this time was contemplating a drama set in eighteenth-century Venice with “cards and candles”). Written in 1912, The Venetian Madcaps was staged two years later at the Moscow mansion of the Nosovs, wealthy patrons of the arts, with music by Kuzmin himself, decor by Sudeikin and choreography by Mordkin. Something of the extravagance of the occasion is preserved in the limited edition (555 copies) of the play published in Moscow in 1915, in which the actors are depicted by Sudeikin in the guise of porcelain figurines—one of the most beautiful of all Russian books.
Though strictly outside the bounds of the present volume, Kuzmin’s later plays deserve some mention. Like his later poetry they tend toward complexity, unexplained juxtapositions, and a deliberate confusion of time and place. Mary’s Tuesday (1921) is described as a “spectacle in three parts for live or wooden dolls” (recalling Maeterlinck’s plays for the puppet theatre). Hull’s Stroll (1924), described by its author as “half scenario, half lyric, half short story,” reveals the influence of the German expressionist film. The Death of Nero (1929), a three act play, is also suggestive of a film scenario, cutting back and forth between modern and Imperial Rome; Nero’s career, as seen by Suetonius, is juxtaposed with a modern, somewhat Dostoevskian love triangle. Neither of the last two plays has been published in the Soviet Union.
Kuzmin was active in the theatre as a composer as well as a playwright. Sometimes he combined both talents to produce musical plays and operettas such as Dutch Liza (1910), a charming pastiche of Russian opéra comique, or Maidens’ Pleasure (1911), the oriental theme of which drew from Sudeikin some of his most gorgeous theatrical designs. On other occasions he wrote music for other men’s plays; his music for Blok’s Puppet Show, “piquant, highly spiced, disturbing and voluptuous” to the ears of a contemporary hearer, seems to have contributed significantly to the play’s success. In addition he wrote music for Ernst Hardt’s Tantris der Narr, Znosko-Borovsky’s The Transformed Prince, Grillparzer’s Die Ahnfrau (in Blok’s translation), Krylov’s The Frantic Family, Ernst Toller’s Hinkemann and Plautus’ Menaechmi.
Among the essays collected in Conventions (1923) are to be found a good many on the theatre. As a theatre critic, Kuzmin keeps to the positions staked out by Meyerhold: the theatre must above all be theatrical, and the enemy of the theatrical is vulgar naturalism—“the real sausages of Antoine’s theatre; the Gothic chairs of the Meiningen troupe and the notorious ‘crickets’ of Stanislavsky.” Impatient with social drama, he insists that “the time we live in, it is clear, calls for tragedy, for high comedy, for fantastic Aristophanic comedy, for an exaggerated and simplified psychology (i.e. melodrama), for pantomime and magic.”
MIKHAIL KUZMIN
THE COMEDY
OF ALEXIS, MAN OF GOD37
OR
THE LOST SON TRANSFORMED
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
ALEXIS, man of God
EUPHIMIAN, his father
SEXTON
SHOPKEEPER
SERVANT
NARRATOR
AGLAIDA, Alexis’ mother
MASTRIDIA, Alexis’ wife
MAIDSERVANTS
HARLOTS
The action takes place in Rome and Edessa.
PART ONE
Rome. Mastridia’s bedroom. Mastridia, Aglaida, maidservants.
MASTRIDIA. I keep trying to remember that song the girls were singing; there’s something in it about carpenters.
AGLAIDA. We celebrated the wedding in the old-fashioned way, keeping in the country songs that you, as a maiden of royal birth, had never heard before.
MASTRIDIA. Were they pagan songs?
AGLAIDA. Yes, pagan songs. The one you mean begins:
The garland has let fall a flower.
The carpenters raise the bridal bower.
Of weeping and wailing we have no need:
Joy we summon—joy’s our creed.
MASTRIDIA. Joy’s our creed.
I think I can remember the next verse:
Soon shall the carpenters’ work be ended—
A new-gathered rose with the old be blended.
Such is eternal destiny.
Demeter…
AGLAIDA. Demeter weeps, and Persephone.
MASTRIDIA. And Persephone.
If the flower perish…
AGLAIDA. The fruit’s in time’s womb.
Carpenters, build the virgin’s tomb!
Soon shall the sacred fortress fall,
The clamor of birds shall breach the wall.
MASTRIDIA. I don’t quite understand the last words.
AGLAIDA. There’s a lot more to the song, and what goes before is clear from what follows. Nothing can be understood by itself.
MASTRIDIA. I still can’t get used to the idea that I’m married to your son. How long is it since I left my father’s house, my careless romps? I’d never set eyes on Alexis before the wedding, before that moment in the blessed church of St. Boniface. O how beautiful his eyes were when I lifted my own and saw them gazing from beneath the wedding garland—being too big for him, it had slipped down onto his forehead!
FIRST MAIDSERVANT. The young master has grown so thin lately; I’m always afraid the golden girdle will slip from his waist one of these days.
AGLAIDA. That will pass. Health returns with love.
MAIDSERVANTS. Amen.
AGLAIDA. He was always frail and sensitive. Look at his picture. Wouldn’t you say it was a girl dressed as a boy?
MASTRIDIA. Holy apostles, how thin his neck is! Those rings seem too heavy for those emaciated fingers.
FIRST MAIDSERVANT. The young master seldom wears them.
AGLAIDA. He will wear them. With love return good cheer and joy.
MAIDSERVANTS. Amen.
MASTRIDIA. How pale his cheeks are, and how the blue veins on his temples stand out! How faint is the pink of his half-open lips!
AGLAIDA. The roses will come to those cheeks, the skin of his temples will thicken and purple will stain his lips—my child, my one and only child, will be happy, healthy and joyful, in accordance with the wishes of God, who created him, of nature, and of myself, who gave him birth; for who will have a man’s welfare at heart more than the mother who gave him suck?
MASTRIDIA. I love him, dear Mother, and I am most grateful to you for choosing me as his bride; give me again your tender blessing.
AGLAIDA. May God be with you, pure and noble maiden. Farewell; await his coming. The sacramental hour of marriage is at hand. May Love be with you!
She goes out. The maidservants attire Mastridia for the night.
SECOND MAIDSERVANT. There you go, my lady, getting sad again; a bride should be joyful.
MASTRIDIA. How I can be joyful when I do not know the fate in store for me? When I know neither my husband, nor his house, nor his parents.
SECOND MAIDSERVANT. Only one who does not think ahead can be joyful.
FIRST MAIDSERVANT. Why should you worry about the future? Your father-in-law’s house is hardly less wealthy and abundant than your father’s.
THIRD MAIDSERVANT. The noble Euphimian has as many as three thousand servants, and all of them wear silk and girdles of gold.
FIRST MAIDSERVANT. And there’s scarcely a house in Rome more noted for piety and good works: are not three tables set up every day—one for beggars, one for widows and one for orphans?
THIRD MAIDSERVANT. Does not the lord Euphimian himself, in his humility of heart, partake of food with itinerant monks?
FIRST MAIDSERVANT. Does he not fast until the ninth hour?
THIRD MAIDSERVANT. And what of the alms he distributes? And what of his prayers?
FIRST MAIDSERVANT. Of the young master I say nothing: he’s a saint!
MASTRIDIA. How am I to live with him?
FIRST MAIDSERVANT. He’s a saint! No one can compare with him in feats of fasting and godly exercises.
THIRD MAIDSERVANT. They say he wears a hair shirt.
MASTRIDIA. How am I to live with him?
FIRST MAIDSERVANT. From his childhood on he’s studied grammar, rhetoric, choral singing and church law.
SECOND MAIDSERVANT. It’s a delicate flower you’re plucking, fortunate Mastridia.
MASTRIDIA. O I am wretched, wretched. What does fate have in store for me?
A knock at the door and a voice: “The noble Alexis, son of the most worthy Euphimian, wishes to know whether the noble Mastridia is prepared to receive him.”
FIRST MAIDSERVANT. The noble Mastridia is ready to receive, joyfully and submissively, her husband and her lord.
Enter Alexis. The maidservants leave.
ALEXIS. So, lady—you are my wife.
MASTRIDIA. My lord…
ALEXIS. You are my wife before God and man. The will of my parents is fulfilled. A long life shall we walk hand in hand together, supporting each other. Do you understand the solemnity of these moments?
MASTRIDIA. My lord…
ALEXIS. Do you understand the solemnity of these moments? Should they not be dedicated to prayer, as the first fruits are dedicated to God? And in the silence of night, in solitude, our spousal prayer, joined although still pure, will the more surely take wing into the starry sky.
MASTRIDIA. My lord…
ALEXIS. I will not hinder you from fixing your thoughts on holy things; I shall return in an hour, at your service.
MASTRIDIA. Don’t you love me then? Or do you love another? Or do you find me repellent?
ALEXIS. I don’t understand what I have done to deserve such questions. As a Christian, how can I fail to love anyone? I shall leave you for a short while only.
Goes out.
MASTRIDIA. What an affront! And this sanctimonious goody-goody is to be my husband? How shamefully I have been deceived. But I shall work my wiles—I’ll make his eyes, accustomed to reflecting only the winking of altar lamps, burn with love! Let’s see, what’s to be done? The wise man takes advantage of the moment to forge his future fate. I shall put on my finery and I shall sit in this golden chair—he’s not a stone, he can’t remain indifferent to one who is of royal blood and far-famed for beauty.
She adorns herself and sits down.
O my beauty’s decaying,
My finery fraying!
Who may gaze, cares not.
Who would gaze, dares not.
To a fine lord and master
Has cruel fate cast me!
Is not my breast tender,
My neck white and slender?
But wasted is beauty
On blind man and eunuch:
Not for them the sweet kernel,
The rose eternal.
But what we desire shall be granted,
Patience and will are not daunted:
The sage casts his line with the dawning,
The sluggard lies snoring all morning.
The sower dreams, sowing,
Of harvest’s growing;
I’ll wait for Alexis.
Come—I’m no ogress!
See, my beauty’s decaying,
My finery’s fraying:
Who may gaze, cares not,
Who would gaze, dares not.
She falls asleep. Alexis enters.
ALEXIS. How am I to choose between God’s will, which commands us to obey our parents, and the voice that sounds in my very ear, urging me to flee, to save myself? And who knows—may it not be that he who thinks to heed God’s word works his own will? But I shall not yield to temptation; our own feeble desires cannot alter the pre-ordained pattern of fate. Farewell, my father’s house, farewell, our household icons, and you, unhappy Mastridia, a widow among brides, a maid among wives—farewell! I shall leave you this ring and this girdle, wrapping them first in a purple kerchief. When the lark awakens you, Alexis will already be far away. And so I kiss you for the first and, God grant, the last time.
He kisses her on the forehead and goes out.
Knocking at the door. Aglaida’s voice: Are you still sleeping, my daughter? It is morning already. Leave your husband’s embraces.
MASTRIDIA. Is it you, my lord? Come in.
Enter Aglaida and maidservants.
AGLAIDA. Well then, my daughter? Has the holy and longed-for consummation come to pass? But what do I see?—you are confused, downcast? Where then is my son? Has he gone so early to pray?
MATRIDIA. Mother, I do not know what is the matter with him: he has not been with me. He is there.
AGLAIDA. You disturb me, Mastridia. Alexis! Alexis!
She goes out.
MAIDSERVANTS. This bodes no good. Who ever heard the like? Who ever did such a thing? It’s just what I expected. And the bed is untouched—I changed two creaking boards on it for new ones. Poor darling, we weep with you. It is hard to go against the will of heaven: what do our desires signify? Weep, weep!
AGLAIDA. (entering) Unheard-of! Incredible! What a disgrace to our house: he is not there! What’s in this purple kerchief?
FIRST MAIDSERVANT. A ring and a girdle! Saints Gurias,38 Samonas and Abibus preserve us! He has left you.
AGLAIDA. Nonsense! We’ll see whose will is stronger. Summon Euphimian—I shall pursue him to the ends of the earth. Do not weep, my daughter; all is not yet lost.
MASTRIDIA. I can’t bear it! I can’t bear it! To be abandoned in this way. Give me musk!… Everything is going dark before my eyes… O!
She falls down in a swoon.
PART TWO
NARRATOR. Roar, you waves, as we fly through the foam!
Farewell, belovèd, lovely Rome!
He must not weep who takes in hand
The pilgrim’s stave.
Be of good cheer and dry your tears—
Set forth, be brave!
“I dreamed this night, Mastridia says,
A fearful dream—
In church I stood at a requiem,
But for whom, for whom?
Who lay there cold and glassy-eyed?
Alexis—dead!
In terror I woke, my heart weighed down
With darkest dread.”
Roar, you waves, as we fly through the foam!
Farewell, belovèd, lovely Rome!
Money he had for the sailors’ pay,
And some to spare—
To beggars he gave it, himself entrusting
To God’s good care.
Who trusts in the Lord walks ever the way
Of righteousness,
With angels for guides and the Mother of God
To shield and bless.
To Edessa town he comes at last,
Stands at the gate,
With hair unshorn and beard unkempt—
A sorry sight!
Roar, you waves, as we fly through the foam!
Farewell, belovèd, lovely Rome!
At the cathedral door he stands,
Ragged, unshod,
In poverty soul-resolute—
A fool in God!
In the harlots’ den he spends his nights,
Quiet as a stone.
“My body is known to the harsh hair shirt,
To love unknown.”
Through nights of passion he stands in prayer,
The women wait;
But he steals away when the east grows red,
Inviolate.
Roar, you waves, as we fly through the foam!
Farewell, belovèd, lovely Rome!
All sorts of virtue are pleasing to God,
He thinks no ill:
If a saint be reputed a profligate,
He’s saintlier still.
Wider and deeper is the soul of man
Than the salt sea:
Change is our law, let pass but an hour—
We are not we.
Foolish the man who rails at fate—
So madmen rave!
Scarce is our fate revealed to us
In the damp grave.
Roar, you waves, as we fly through the foam!
Farewell, belovèd, lovely Rome!
SCENE ONE
A street in Edessa. Evening. Alexis and harlots.
HARLOTS. Alexis! Alexis! Who are you going to visit today? Me! Me! My sweetheart, my poppet, my pretty—come and visit me! There’s a pot of rue on my windowsill—it’s blooming wonderfully. And I have bed-curtains with a maiden and a unicorn and fighting warriors embroidered on them. I don’t have any curtains, but I can sing you songs all night, and never the same one twice, and I’ll give you an amulet to ward off the evil eye. Me, visit me!
ALEXIS. My sweet sisters, I wouldn’t want to hurt the feelings of any one of you, so I’ll go somewhere I haven’t been before.
FIRST HARLOT. You’ll soon get through us at that rate.
FOURTH HARLOT. Have you heard, ladies, that a new saint has been proclaimed at Antioch?
FIRST HARLOT. What, does he get barren matrons with child?
FOURTH HARLOT. No, he isn’t a hermit—he’s a stonemason.
FIRST HARLOT. A stonemason?
FOURTH HARLOT. I heard about it from fat Ephrem—the one who used to be my protector. They were building a house there after the recent earthquake, and while they were taking a rest, Ephrem (he was overseer) suddenly noticed a pillar of fire over the head of one old man. They made enquiries, and it turned out that this man was a bishop who had quit his office of his own free will to labor in obscurity with the common folk.
FIRST HARLOT. He’s a great fool, your bishop! To cover himself with grime in the heat of noon when he might be lying in a fragrant bath or riding a white mule.
SECOND HARLOT. Anyway, what has all this to do with us?
THIRD HARLOT. What are you looking around you like that for, Alexis?
FIRST HARLOT. He’s looking to see whether there’s a pillar of fire over his head.
SECOND HARLOT. Perhaps you’re a bishop too?
THIRD HARLOT. Or even a pope?
FIFTH HARLOT. (sings)
Cries merry Lisetta:
“A sea-trip! What better?
Let us fly through the foam
Till we come to eternal, seven-hilled Rome.”
Says the lady Omphale:
“The sea waits, my darling,
But we also need sails
And a cap for your pigtails;
Listen to me, we’ll cut our hair,
Our feet will be bare
And jerkins will flatten our breasts—
On a voyage a sailor’s disguise is best.
Ah the delight
Of the caraway-scented Palatine night…”
“O mother, be silent I pray:
Call not to mind what is far, far away.”
Alexis weeps.
FIFTH HARLOT. What’s the matter, friend—why are you weeping?
FIRST HARLOT. Let him be. Each of us has her little cell where she can be alone when the time for tears comes—but where can he go?
They go out.
ALEXIS. O Rome! My poor deserted ones, do you still live as you used to? Have you forgotten me?
“Call not to mind what is far, far away.”
Enter a sexton.
SEXTON. Are you the holy man?
ALEXIS. In the light of dusk one man looks much like another. I think you’re looking for someone else.
SEXTON. You’re the Alexis they call “the harlots’ friend,” aren’t you? Let me kiss your hand.
ALEXIS. I am the one they call “the harlots’ friend,” but I see no holiness in that.
SEXTON. Enough of these denials. You will soon learn that everything is known: your virtue and your humility both. This night the Queen of Heaven appeared to me and said: “The holy man must live in My house, not stand with penitents in the galilee.” “But who is he?” I ventured to ask, and she said to me: “Alexis, the harlots’ friend.” And so, brother, I beg you to let me reveal you to the lord bishop and lead you into the temple. I came purposely at the twilight hour to speak with you, lest I should offend your humility.
ALEXIS. I cannot oppose the Voice of Heaven: go, light the candles, prepare to welcome the servant of the Queen of Heaven.
SEXTON. We shall expect you at once.
He goes out.
ALEXIS. Surely I did not leave my father’s house and my love that I might be honored here? I must flee, I must flee. The Lord will forgive me: the tempter too sends visions. I do not wish for worldly honors. I do not want them!
He goes out.
SCENE TWO
Rome. A street.
NARRATOR. A mother planned marriage—
It was not well:
It profits us little
To have our will.
His wife he abandons—
And what of it? What?
Who’s to determine
Where truth is, where not?
The plum being eaten,
The stone’s cast aside—
Yet the traveller shall rest
In the plumtree’s shade.
Vice or virtue
Are hidden in vain:
At the hour appointed
All shall be plain.
In vain to seduce you
The harlot schemes
Your holiness haunts
Another’s dreams.
Scorning all honor,
You braved the sea-foam,
For joy or for sorrow,
Your path leads to Rome.
The path that is destined
You may not gainsay—
Then shoulder your bundle
And go your way.
ALEXIS. Can I be in Rome?! O fate, who can argue with you? How well I remember everything, even though it has changed in these seventeen years! Here’s the bend in the street, halfway home from school; here’s the shop where I used to buy cakes from fat Titus—is he still alive? Someone is coming out of the shop: can it be he? No, no—he was fat with three folds of flesh at the nape of his neck… I’ll speak to him, all the same… Respected sir, I bid you good day.
SHOPKEEPER. And to you, passer-by, a day no less good… Have you come from afar? Your feet are covered with dust, your face is sunburned, your clothes are shabby: perhaps you come from the holy places?
ALEXIS. No, I do not come from the holy places; I’m very tired, that’s all.
SHOPKEEPER. Is there no one that you know in town?
ALEXIS. I very much doubt it.
SHOPKEEPER. You might seek help from the noble Euphimian; his charity is known far beyond the bounds of Rome.
ALEXIS. Indeed? I don’t remember ever hearing of him… where is his house?
SHOPKEEPER. If you came through the square, you must have seen it: by the gates there is a fountain with bas-reliefs depicting the story of the prophet Jonah.
ALEXIS. Are there two big planetrees at the entrance?
SHOPKEEPER. That’s right… You noticed them? But you needn’t trouble yourself after all: here comes Euphimian himself on his way home from the senate.
ALEXIS. Really? Be still, my heart, be still!
SHOPKEEPER. Yes, I’m sure it is he. Why have you turned so pale, traveller? Are you afraid?
ALEXIS. Yes, very afraid. Which of them is Euphimian: the curly-haired one with the gray beard?
SHOPKEEPER. You have guessed aright.
ALEXIS. Gracious heavens! His very features!
Falls to his knees, sobbing.
SHOPKEEPER. You are in a state, though indeed a humble posture befits a supplicant.
Enter Euphimian with two friends and several servants.
EUPHIMIAN. I shall talk with Titus Claudius tomorrow about the matter you mentioned at matins. You may consider your petition all but granted… Who is this man? What is it you seek, thus abasing yourself? You’re sobbing? Have you been shipwrecked? But where is the tablet depicting your misfortune?
ALEXIS. My lord, be merciful, give shelter to one who has no roof over his head, feed one who hungers, succour one pursued by fate! If someone dear to you is on a journey or roving abroad, remember him and take pity on an unhappy wanderer!
EUPHIMIAN. Who taught you these words? Or are you a seer?
ALEXIS. No one. No one.
EUPHIMIAN. Follow me; in my house you will find shelter; pray for God’s servant Alexis.
ALEXIS. Alexis, God’s servant, is happy, is blessed.
EUPHIMIAN. Do you mean he’s dead? Do you know him?
ALEXIS. No, I know nothing, nothing…
They move on.
PART THREE
SCENE ONE
The courtyard of Euphimian’s house; Alexis’ cell by the gates, the window of Mastridia’s chamber opposite.
ALEXIS. Lord, I thank Thee that Thou hast permitted me to spend the last days of my sinful life in my father’s house, although unrecognized and in a lowly guise. My humiliation, the mockery of the menials, the disdain of visitors and passers-by are sweet to me. I thank Thee. I see poor Mastridia every day, and her tears give me hope for her salvation. But I do not wish, dying unrecognized, to leave my kin in ignorance and to be deprived of the requiem masses and funeral rites which, perhaps, have already been performed for me in my lifetime. I shall write the story of my life on a long scroll and let them find it when I am no longer among the living. I feel that God will soon call me to Himself. Mastridia is late appearing today; she is dallying behind her painted windows. Already it is evening; swallows soar screeching above the earth; the shadows lengthen and the earth flushes pink, like the blood-stained sand in the arena.
Mastridia throws open her windows.
There she is! Who knows, wife, this may be the last time I shall see you.
MASTRIDIA. (addressing a cage visible through the open window).
Little bird, little sparrow mine,
Of what do you sing all day long?
Misery past measuring
Brings ever the selfsame song.
Two beds, O two beds in my chamber are,
Between them I numbly grieve.
Through wearisome days of widowhood
I drag my slow steps to the grave.
What joy do we know, the two of us?
Gray sadness has made us his own.
Unknown to men are our melodies—
And let them remain unknown!
Gaily you chirruped at liberty,
Drunk with earth’s heady spring.
But now you hang here my prisoner,
My companion in sorrowing.
O I wouldn’t constrain and torment you,
Hang your cage by a green grassy plot,
But I am weary to death of this misery,
This wearisome widow’s lot.
What boredom! What a wretched life is mine! What do I care if I am honored by all and first among widowed matrons if I am deprived of the joys of love and family? O Alexis, my dear husband, why did you forsake me? Are you pining, too, eh, little bird? If you like, I’ll open your cage, but I won’t let you out, no I won’t… You’re used to captivity by now, aren’t you? You’re happy in your tight little house…
She opens the door of the case; the bird flies away.
O! Has he flown away? Would you believe it! Quick, girls, catch my bird, my little bird! What are you standing there for, old man? Run—catch him! Look, now he’s perched on the wall, now he’s flying from the bush to the gravel! Did you catch him? No? But he’s forgotten how to fly. He’s flown away? What? You nasty, lazy old man—you couldn’t even manage to do that for me. Does my father-in-law feed you for nothing then?
Weeps.
ALEXIS. If I were a cat, then no doubt I would have been able to return your plaything to you, lady, but I am only a feeble old man.
MASTRIDIA. You couldn’t even do a little thing like that for me, you disgusting old sponger. I’ll tell Euphimian to throw you out: I can’t bear to look at you.
ALEXIS. Lady, do not weep, be comforted. Suppose your husband were to return—your eyes must not be red for the joyful welcome.
MASTRIDIA. And when is he going to return, I’d like to know. Perhaps he is no longer among the living.
ALEXIS. All the same, he may return. Everything is in God’s hands. There’s one thing I wanted to ask you—only you mustn’t be offended—but I’ve heard it said that the features of the missing lord somewhat resembled mine.
Mastridia laughs.
ALEXIS. Even I was young once.
MASTRIDIA. What rubbish! He was taller than you. And how dare you say such things to me? You are becoming insolent; you deliberately allowed my bird to escape and now you rub salt in my wounds. You’re a malicious, idle, filthy, disgusting old man. Your cell stinks too.
ALEXIS. Lady!
MASTRIDIA. All our visitors turn away when they pass to avoid breathing in the stench.
ALEXIS. Not everyone can smell of ambergris.
MASTRIDIA. You send me evil dreams! You’re a sorcerer! You torment me! I don’t want to set eyes on you. Get out! Take that, take that!
She throws the empty cage at him and goes out.
ALEXIS. My God, my God, it’s not enough that the servants mock me and beat me and throw slops over me—now even my own wife is treating me cruelly. The time has come for you to die, wretched Alexis.
SCENE TWO
Mastridia’s chamber.
NARRATOR. To his setting the sun rolls swiftly,
And deathward we sink with the sun.
When death comes, can brother help brother?
That prison-house no man may shun.
Sweet are the ills of our dotage
When the terrible caller comes by.
Dear is this life—must we leave it?
In silence the blind reaper scythes.
Soul weeps to be sundered from body,
The sun sinks to earth, crimson-rimmed.
Be your lot happy or hapless,
The light of your eyes must be dimmed.
Fall the white hands and lie listless;
Journey’s ended, and are you content?
All in vain is Niobe’s weeping:
Her young are beyond her lament.
When the righteous die, we see wonders:
Their lives are a chalice of gold.
Through the heavens, by paths paradisial
They mount to a better world.
Thing of clay, the body lies lifeless,
But soul’s wings like dove’s wings are spread.
Weep, brothers weep, cast your eyes down,
For saintly Alexis is dead.
Mastridia, Aglaida, maidservants.
AGLAIDA. How stuffy it is, though it’s only March; should we open a window, Mastridia?
MASTRIDIA. I don’t want to see the sun; I find painted glass more comforting.
AGLAIDA. Well, the heat is killing me.
FIRST MAIDSERVANT. It’s been hot for days; a great cloud of stifling dust hangs over all the Campagna—the acacias on the Appian Way have turned gray from the early heat. I can’t remember such sultry weather in March.
SECOND MAIDSERVANT. Did you hear that on Friday, on Saturday and again on Thursday, in the cathedral, the pope and all the clergy and congregation heard a voice from the altar—always the same voice?
MASTRIDIA. And what did it say?
FIRST MAIDSERVANT. “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden.” The whole city knows about it.
MASTRIDIA. I don’t know—I hadn’t heard.
SECOND MAIDSERVANT. The Holy Father spends all his nights in prayer.
AGLAIDA. How stuffy it is, Mastridia! O how stuffy it is!
FIRST MAIDSERVANT. Today I saw the young master in a dream. I was walking along the road by the sea and I saw a man, clothed all in gold, sitting in a pine tree; I asked someone nearby, “Who is that?” and he replied, “Alexis.” And the man gathered his robes about him and flew up into the air; his golden sleeves covered half the sky.
AGLAIDA. A phoenix! A phoenix!
MASTRIDIA. And you recognized my husband?
FIRST MAIDSERVANT. I recognized him by his eyes: they’re hard to forget.
AGLAIDA. I saw eyes like that somewhere not long ago. But where? Where?
MASTRIDIA. Yesterday my little bird, my catamite, flew away. That blockhead who lives at our gates couldn’t manage to get him back for me.
AGLAIDA. Bells. Do you hear bells?
MAIDSERVANTS. We can’t hear a thing. It’s the heat making your ears ring. Rest awhile, mistress, you’re not well.
MASTRIDIA. He couldn’t catch him. Someone should tell Father to throw him out. He’s insolent, coarse and lazy.
SECOND MAIDSERVANT. You should be more compassionate, mistress.
AGLAIDA. Open the window. Don’t tell me you can’t hear bells now.
They open a window.
MAIDSERVANTS. Yes, yes. And singing too. Look, look: crosses, banners… choristers, clergy, bishops, the pope, the synod—and they’re all coming here, right into our courtyard. What does it mean? They’re going into the old man’s cell.
Enter a servant.
SERVANT. Ladies, a miracle, something unheard-of. Today at matins, when the pope celebrated mass after praying unceasingly for three nights, there came a miraculous voice, saying: “A man of God has entered my dwelling,” and he made it known that the saint should be sought in your house…
MAIDSERVANT. (at the window) Look: the lord Euphimian is coming from the cell holding a scroll; he’s reading it, he’s staggering, he’s fallen down in a faint. Other people are reading it; the singing has ceased, incense billows from the censers. What’s this—they’re coming over to the window? What? Louder! They’re calling Aglaida and Mastridia. What can it mean?
LOUD VOICE FROM THE COURTYARD. Noble Aglaida, give heed! Your son Alexis has been found dead: it was he who for so many years hid in the cell at your gates.
MASTRIDIA. (shrieking) Oh no! Oh no! That filthy, crazy old man! O my widowhood!
MAIDSERVANTS. Shhh, what are you saying? It is God’s will! A miracle!
AGLAIDA. Alexis! Phoenix! They are carrying him out. My son! My son! How beautiful his face is! What radiance! The sky is filled with light! What fragrance! Where is the dust cloud now? And the stifling heat? Alexis! Alexis! Alexis!
NARRATOR. Angels and archangels, thrones and powers
Watch sleeplessly over the affairs of men,
God’s faithful servants, faithful to His word.
“Who is the new-departed come among us,
Leaving behind the suffering and dreams of men?”
They whisper, gazing wonderingly about them.
“Saintly Alexis, our brother, has left the world
behind him,
Disdaining the sweets of earthly love.
Now do you hear the heavenly choir?”
“I hear, I hear.”
“In vain were you your sainthood’s own oppressor;
you reached that verge
Where human pride and power are powerless;
Have you learned at last to know their worth?”
“I have, I have!”
“Howsoever we may strive, the will of God
Shapes with hand invisible the fate of men.
Swift is our lot, and finds us out.”
EXIT LUDUS
April-June, 1907.
MIKHAIL KUZMIN THE VENETIAN MADCAPS39
Comedy
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
FINETTE, an actress
THE MARQUISE MARCOBRUNO
MARIA, her servant
AN ACTRESS
COUNT STELLO
NARCISETTO, his friend
HARLEQUIN
HARLEQUIN’S APPRENTICES
GROBUFFI, the Marquise’s son
THE ABBE, his tutor
GONDOLIERS
BLACKAMOORS
LAMPLIGHTER
PLAYERS IN THE PANTOMIME
COLUMBINE
PIERROT
HARLEQUIN
FRIENDS (WOMEN)
A HERALD
DEATH
FRIENDS (MEN)
The action takes place in eighteenth-century Venice, the Venice of Goldoni, Gozzi and Longhi.
ACT ONE
Night. An embankment. Music.
SCENE ONE
Enter servants with lanterns; two blackamoors carry on a mirror. Enter Count Stello and Narcisetto, embracing. They pause before the mirror.
COUNT. O beauty, say, why is thy hour so fleeting?
Wherefore, O love, so quick to spread thy wing?
O might a youthful heart be ever beating
Within this breast, and time’s unerring sling
Not dare take aim at this inviolate brow
Until my soul shake off life’s here and now.
NARCISETTO. See: cheek pressed to cheek and hand to hand,
This mirror shows us in a ghostly guise;
These shadowed forms that float before our eyes
Dwell surely in some far, enchanted land.
COUNT. But I have found a prize none may surpass:
A heart more true than any flattering glass.
They step into a gondola.
SCENE TWO
Enter players, Harlequin and his apprentices, Finette.
FINETTE. Can that be that strange man Stello? The one they say is a stranger to love and tenderness for all his wealth and fine looks? As far as I can judge, he is very attractive.
ACTRESS. People talk about nothing but his odd whims.
FINETTE. Yes, I know… His detestation of love is enough in itself to make one consider him an extravagant melancholic.
ACTRESS. An actress with the troupe that was here last year did her best to seduce him—but without success.
FINETTE. Obviously she didn’t know how to go about it. Ah, that’s a great art, and there’s not many have the secret of it. I’d only have to lift my little finger and he’d be at my feet.
Finette, Finette,
Who can escape your net?
Gray old bird or cock sparrow,
You’ll fall to my lure—
When I loose love’s arrow
My aim is sure.
Wise man and dullard,
Court breed and street—
A carpet bright-colored
For these dainty feet.
Finette, Finette,
Who can escape your net?
ACTRESS. Aren’t you a little bit overconfident? And wouldn’t Harlequin be jealous?
FINETTE. Harlequin—jealous? What an absurd notion! . . Would you like me to ask him? Harlequin, Harlequin!
HARLEQUIN. Now what is it?
FINETTE. You won’t be jealous, will you, if I make the good Count fall in love with me?
HARLEQUIN. You can fall in love with him yourself, for all I care. I’d as soon be jealous of you as I would of my left foot.
FINETTE. Not a very flattering comparison.
HARLEQUIN. A good little cow always comes home, wherever she wanders—and so do you.
FINETTE. You’re becoming insufferably coarse lately, Harlequin—but you know that I love you.
HARLEQUIN. Well that’s just dandy!
ACTRESS. Ladies and gentlemen, time to step into our gondolas!
FINETTE. I’ll attend to Count Stello en route.
HARLEQUIN. I have to warn you that I won’t be coming along, as I still have matters to settle on shore. We’ll meet there.
FINETTE. Another of your unsavory affairs?
HARLEQUIN. Take yourself off, there’s a good girl. You can kiss your precious count to your heart’s content and I won’t get in your way—just leave me in peace.
FINETTE. You don’t love me, Harlequin.
ACTRESS. Do let’s be off, Finette. They’ll all be waiting for us.
HARLEQUIN. I’ll stay behind with my boys, but you’d better hurry, Finette—I see just the people I need coming this way. Goodbye!
The players step into a gondola.
SCENE THREE
Enter the Abbé and Grobuffi
ABBE. (boxing Grobuffi’s ears) I’ll teach you to gawp at girls, you wretched boy! I’ll teach you to go sneaking into Maria’s bodice! For shame, a boy your age shouldn’t have the least notion of such things.
Harlequin’s apprentices laugh loudly.
GROBUFFI. (bawling) But I don’t understand what you’re talking about, signor Abbé!
ABBE. (boxing his ears) I’ll give you a whipping when we get home—then you’ll understand!
GROBUFFI. But I thought you said that I shouldn’t have the least notion…
ABBE. What’s that? I didn’t say that you shouldn’t have any notion at all, I was simply trying to eradicate your baser instincts. (Indicating Harlequin’s apprentices) Ask these boys whether they would dream of doing such things, even though their mothers were not, in all probability, marquises. (The apprentices laugh) Take them as your example—they’ve never even heard of such things!
APPRENTICES. We don’t go sneaking into bodices—we’re not fleas!
ABBE. There you are, you rascal! (boxes his ears.)
SCENE FOUR
Enter the Marquise, Maria and servants.
ABBE. (changing his tone) You acted rashly, my son, in leaving off your scarf. It may be spring, but the nights get chilly. Of course the Lord watches over his creatures, but we should never put his mercy to the test by failing to respect the laws of nature.
MARQUISE. I must say I’m surprised to find you tagging along: surely you don’t imagine we’re going to take you to the pavilion with us? There’ll be nothing for you to do there—you’d better stay home with the Abbé.
GROBUFFI. Mama, if only you’d let me…
MARQUISE. Don’t argue… go to Maria.
GROBUFFI. There, you see, signor Abbé, Mama herself tells me to go to her, and you said…
ABBE. What did I say? I didn’t say anything… I have, however, written some verses in honor of this evening’s events, and I’d be disappointed not to have the opportunity of delivering them at the appropriate time. I venture, therefore, to intercede on Grobuffi’s behalf and to beg that, since he cannot remain in town without my supervision, he should at least be allowed onto the balcony surrounding the delightful pavilion of love.
MARQUISE. Very well, that might be possible, but only as long as you keep an eye on him—he’s such an impressionable boy. As for your always charming verses, it would give me great pleasure to give them a preliminary hearing, just to assure myself that you are not too free in your expressions. You may be an abbé—but you’re a naughty man all the same!
ABBE. I assure you, madam, that my priestly office guarantees the propriety of my inspiration. I’ll be happy to read them to you this very moment.
MARQUISE. I’m listening. Maria, put your hands over Grobuffi’s ears.
ABBE. (reads) Venus assumes her pedestal,
Freed of her last constraining fetter,
But lo, at her feet, revealed to all,
Another Venus, and a better.
Two pretty, wingless amorets
To assist love’s purposes make haste,
And dazzled night, whom rage besets,
Her dusky veil o’er earth has cast.
Forget, O Venus, thy caprices,
Crease not with envious frown thy brow:
The loveliest of all marquises
Love may not boast that he doth know.
MARQUISE. Most touching, signor Abbé—but why isn’t Harlequin here yet? Did you convey to him my gratitude and my purse?
ABBE. Set your heart at rest, Marquise; indeed, he is already here, as are his diligent apprentices.
MARQUISE. Delightful boys! I can hardly wait to get to our pavilion. Ah, what a delicious evening is in store for us!
HARLEQUIN. (coming forward) Marquise, I am entirely at your service, but I find that I have somewhat underestimated our expenses.
MARQUISE. Never mind, never mind—here are two more purses for you; dispose of them as if they were your own. These cupids will be coming with us as we agreed, won’t they? I have decided to bring my maidservant Maria with me so that she can stand on the pedestal in the person of Venus, the goddess of love—just imagine how poetic that will be! Our good Abbé has composed some perfectly charming little verses, which you shall hear in due course—but now to our gondolas and away! Away on our voyage to Cythera! Allons, allons. Ah, those boys of yours—quite, quite delicious!
HARLEQUIN. Marquise, your hand. (To his apprentices) Quick march, you rascals!
GROBUFFI. Signor Abbé, don’t forget to take me with you.
ABBE. Hurry up then, my child, hurry up!
All climb into gondolas.
GONDOLIER. (sings)
Over the sleeping waters
(We two in a world that’s still),
The salt-breathed zephyrs waft us,
We glide at our own sweet will.
Hate is paid no heed to
And jealousy is far
When we glide toward the Lido
And love’s hand guides the oar.
Now let the rower quicken
His smooth, melodious oar, Now let love’s longing waken
And bear us far from shore.
Hate is paid no heed to
And jealousy is far
When we glide toward the Lido
And love’s hand guides the oar.
The salt-breathed zephyrs waft us,
We glide at our own sweet will
Over the sleeping waters
(We two in a world that’s still).
Finette dances in her gondola in an attempt to capture the count’s attention. The gondolas glide on, stopping at last by the two pavilions.
SCENE SIX
Inside one of the pavilions.
COUNT. Look, Narcisetto, at that amazing lacemaker, the moon! See how she spreads her golden lace over the sea’s deep mourning, sewing the indigo veil of the heavens with golden stars. No costumer more cunning than she, Narcisetto! And what is nobler in life than to find beauty in all things, to take delight in them and to lose oneself in a lover’s revery? Everywhere the subtlest beauty lies hidden, to be revealed only to the eye of the elect—in night and in day, in autumn and in spring, in the fading leaf and the first violet, in the voice of the lute and the trumpet’s snarl, in passionate embraces and in hopeless love…
NARCISETTO. And in death?
COUNT. O silent sister death, uninvited but ever welcome visitor! . .
SCENE SEVEN
Enter Finette.
FINETTE. Excuse me, I’ve made a mistake…
NARCISETTO. Uninvited but ever welcome visitor! . .
FINETTE. I thought… I thought that the pavilion where my friends were supposed to land… I didn’ t expect to meet you here…
COUNT. Perhaps fate is giving us a sign, and you will consent to remain with us, all the more as there is no one to escort you to your pavilion.
FINETTE. You are too kind.
Narcisetto brings up a chair for her and goes out.
COUNT. You are, I believe, one of the town players?
FINETTE. Yes, I’m their leading actress. My name is Finette.
COUNT. I have heard your name—it’s quite a well known one.
FINETTE. You are gracious, Count, but your name is no less familiar to me than mine is to you and, to speak frankly, I am grateful for the chance, if not to make your acquaintance, then at least to talk with you.
COUNT. You wanted that?
FINETTE. I can’t deny it.
COUNT. But, tell me, what for?
FINETTE. I won’t speak of your looks, your wealth and your whims, but I have heard that you are a stranger to love. Can such a thing be possible? To live without smiles, without meetings, without kisses—is that not to live without breathing?
Were all the world’s great store of riches mine,
The privilege and power for which men pine;
Did some great poet, crowned with deathless fame,
Make me his muse and glorify my name,
Yet would I count my state of little worth
If loveless passed my days upon the earth!
To love, I ask no more, although in vain,
Only to feel that pleasurable pain,
With beating heart await the appointed tryst
When the green star glimmers through a veil of mist,
When trembles all the drowsing, moon-blanched glade
With murmur of a distant serenade!
Can Stello, beauty’s lord, unmovèd move
And shun the soft captivity of love?
Nor yield his liberty to her sweet thrall
Who, like the fabled siren, lures us all?
Who can but pity, who but heave a sigh
To see a loveless traveler pass by?
COUNT. Very prettily declaimed. But if you imagine that any passion resembling love can be aroused in me, you’re very much mistaken. I am an observer, nothing more.
FINETTE. But when you see lips and eyes that please you, when you see spring clouds and translucent leaves, a calm sea and a starry sky, surely you feel an emotion for which there is no other name than love? When you read Petrarch or listen to Paisiello, do you not experience a joy that can only be defined as the joy of a man in love? This hand—do you not find it graceful? Should it touch you, would not a delicate flame shoot through your veins? Can it be that you feel nothing when the gondolier sings:
“The salt-breathed zephyrs waft us,
We glide at our own sweet will”?
And when you kiss your friend Narcisetto—do you feel nothing then?
COUNT. You’re a very cunning girl—they didn’t call you Finette for nothing. But I assure you that I’m no simpleton either, and quite cunning enough to resist you.
FINETTE. To resist me? You imagine that I have some sort of scheme in my head? Oh Stello, look at me: do I have the look of a scheming woman? Flighty and frivolous I may be, but I am always, always truthful.
COUNT. And you consider that a great virtue?
FINETTE. I’m not saying that—I’m only saying what happens to be so, regardless of whether it pleases you or not.
COUNT. And you expected me to respond to that? I who live for dreams and beauty and care no more for truth than I do for the stones that pave the embankment?
FINETTE. I know that, but I also know that I can make your most ardent and fantastic dream a reality. All the enchantment of love’s play, love’s fancy and love’s smiles I can pour into this goblet like a foaming wine and raise it to your beautiful lips, as I do now.
Pours wine and lowers the curtain of the pavilion.
SCENE EIGHT
Grobuffi and the Abbé tiptoe along the balcony of the pavilion to the left. Narcisetto stands on the balcony of the pavilion to the right.
ABBE. Careful you don’t trip up, my son—the moonlight is so deceptive. How dreadful if I were to miss the moment for reciting my poem.
GROBUFFI. (peeping through a gap in the curtain) I don’t think it’s time yet, signor Abbé: Maria is still undressed.
ABBE. What, she’s undressed already? A wondrous sight! And are the two little cherubs ready?
GROBUFFI. But what’s Harlequin going to do? Isn’t he going to take his clothes off?
NARCISETTO. What’s the matter with me? What’s the matter with me? This woman, this actress has cast a spell on me with her beauty, her voice, her charm. I never experienced anything like it before. And what is she doing with Stello? A cloud hangs over our friendship—or can it be the beginning of love?
GROBUFFI. Hee-hee! You should just see what those two little fellows are up to, and Maria’s already on her pedestal. Oh that is interesting. Signor Abbé, signor Abbé, hurry up or you’ll miss your entrance.
ABBE. True, child, I think it is time we made an appearance.
The curtain opens. Maria is standing on the pedestal, the Marquise half-reclining; one of Harlequin’s apprentices is positioned on either side of her and Harlequin stands behind her. The curtain descends as the Abbé and Grobuffi enter the pavilion.
SCENE NINE
GONDOLIER. The salt-breathed zephyrs waft us,
We glide at our own sweet will.
NARCISETTO. O cruel love, O love most fair,
I pierce your mystery at last.
All things I am, all things I dare;
Reborn, I shuffle off the past.
Finette comes out of the pavilion and halts.
NARCISETTO. I love you, Finette, I love you.
FINETTE. Is that you, Narcisetto?
NARCISETTO. Yes, it is I, Narcisetto, who never knew until now what the word “love” meant, who never smelled the smell of seaweed, who never saw orange sails, who never heard the songs of the gondoliers. You have revealed to me the beauty of life. If you reject me, I shall die.
FINETTE. You’re a pretty lad, Narcisetto—it’s dangerous to listen to you on a dark night.
NARCISETTO. I love you, Finette.
FINETTE. You’re a great friend of Stello’s, aren’t you?
NARCISETTO. When you are close to me I forget everything.
FINETTE. He’s heartless and ill-bred, your Count.
NARCISETTO. What does it matter?
FINETTE. Are you listening to me, Narcisetto? Tomorrow at dawn, wait for me outside my door. Do you understand?
NARCISETTO. I understand, but I can’t believe it. Say it again, Finette.
FINETTE. Tomorrow at dawn, outside my door.
NARCISETTO. Do with me as you will, Finette; I am yours, utterly and forever.
Goes out behind the pavilion.
SCENE TEN
The Abbé and Grobuffi are thrown out of the pavilion, the curtain of which then descends. The Abbé and Grobuffi peer through a cranny, laughing loudly.
GONDOLIER. Hate is paid no heed to
And jealousy is far
When we glide toward the Lido
And love’s hand guides the oar.
ACT TWO
A street corner. A bridge; Count Stello’s palace; facing it, the house where Finette lives; below, a gambling den.
SCENE ONE
The windows of the gambling den are thrown open and laughter is heard; the window closes and all is quiet again. Harlequin enters, turning out his empty pockets.
HARLEQUIN. Not a bad game—not a penny of the old woman’s money left! The devil take the man who invented cards! I’ll have to go through the comedy with the painted Marquise all over again. Another thing: I haven’t the least notion of what Finette’s up to—not that it interests me much; she’s a woman I can absolutely rely on, after all. Of course, she’s trash like the rest of them, but for some odd reason she loves me. And here she is—talk of the devil.
SCENE TWO
Finette appears at the window.
FINETTE. Harlequin, I’m cross with you.
HARLEQUIN. Oh, why?
FINETTE. The old Marquise—that’s why. What kind of tricks have you been getting up to with her?
HARLEQUIN. What kind of tricks could a man get up to with her?
FINETTE. I know what kind…
HARLEQUIN. Well that’s just dandy.
FINETTE. You’re a terrible gadabout, Harlequin. I’m jealous of every woman you look at.
HARLEQUIN. Quite unnecessarily.
FINETTE. There’s another thing I’m cross with you about.
HARLEQUIN. And what’s that?
FINETTE. Why aren’t you jealous of the Count? Of Narcisetto? It’s as if you don’t care what I do.
HARLEQUIN. I care who you sleep with, but as for the other nonsense—whispers, sighs, glances, verses, even kisses perhaps—all that, to tell you the truth, doesn’t interest me in the least.
FINETTE. You talk like that because you don’t love me, Harlequin.
HARLEQUIN. If you’re not careful, I’ll come up to your room and drag you down by the hair, just to stop you getting silly ideas.
FINETTE. (joyfully) Just you try, just you try!
She moves away from the window, and Harlequin enters the house. It begins to grow light.
SCENE THREE
NARCISETTO. (sings, standing on the bridge)
O moon, with bow of silver
Dissolve the mists of night.
Reach in thy silver quiver
And put love’s fears to flight.
Finette, my dove, my darling,
Wake up, you sleepyhead!
Finette, my dove, my darling,
It’s time to quit your bed.
The window rattles—listen!—
The door squeaks merrily;
A foot that’s light and lissom
Comes tripping down to me.
Happy the step she touches
As she goes flitting by
(Rosy with sleep, she stretches
And rubs a drowsy eye).
But I who watch this dwelling
Am happiest of all:
Her beauty is past telling
Who lives beyond this wall.
Finette, my dove, my darling,
Wake up, you sleepyhead!
Finette, my dove, my darling,
It’s time to quit your bed.
SCENE FOUR
FINETTE. (at the window)
Take comfort, Narcisetto,
You have not long to wait,
Finette, your dove, your darling,
Is up and won’t be late!
She moves away from the window.
NARCISETTO. Finette! Now she’s running a comb through her golden hair, losing her temper with wayward pins, pulling her stockings over her adorable feet. Now she’s running down the stairs, now she’s carefully turning the key in the lock. O Finette!
Finette enters. Narcisetto rushes to fling his arms round her and kiss her.
FINETTE. Darling boy—how soft your cheeks are!
NARCISETTO. At last, Finette, I can look at you, hold you in my arms, kiss you—I can’t believe my happiness!
FINETTE. What would Count Stello say if he saw us together, Narcisetto?
NARCISETTO. What do I care what he would say? He means no more to me than last year’s snow or the vanished moon that brought you to me, my darling, as it led away the tedious night. Why must you constantly be reminding me of that man?
FINETTE. Because you love him, Narcisetto.
NARCISETTO. I love no one but you; I wish to see no one but you, to hear of no one but you.
FINETTE. Now it’s my turn to distrust you, Narcisetto. If your memory is so short, by tomorrow I too may mean no more to you than last year’s snow.
NARCISETTO. I shall never forget you, never—I swear it.
FINETTE. There’s no need to swear, Narcisetto—oaths are the most easily forgotten of all. Did you not swear an oath of eternal friendship to the Count?—and he’s already forgotten!
NARCISETTO. The Count won’t stand between us, Finette, I assure you.
FINETTE. Does he stand between us then? If only he did!
NARCISETTO. Finette, Finette!
FINETTE. Don’t be cross, dear boy! Though it suits you extremely well when you flush and pout and knit your brows, and your eyes gleam. One wants so much to comfort and caress you, to do everything one can to bring cheer and contentment back to that sweet little face.
NARCISETTO. You treat me as if I were a little boy.
FINETTE. But you are a little boy—a little boy I find quite delightful.
NARCISETTO. You don’t love me, Finette.
FINETTE. Love! Ah, what magic in those four letters!
SCENE FIVE
Harlequin appears in the doorway.
NARCISETTO. Finette, I’ll do anything you want to make you say “I love you.”
FINETTE. If I didn’t, Narcisetto, why would I agree to meet you, why would I come to you, why would I be speaking to you now?
NARCISETTO. Tell me, tell me that you love me, Finette.
FINETTE. Perhaps Count Stello is awake by now and is waiting for you, Narcisetto. You know he can’t bear to be without you for a moment, the good Count.
NARCISETTO. Damnation! You’ll take a different tone with me this evening, Finette.
He runs out.
SCENE SIX
Finette rushes toward Harlequin, throws her arms about him and kisses him.
FINETTE. Harlequin, my Harlequin, kiss me, hold me, squeeze me, bite me, beat me—I am your thing, a thing that will never leave you, however badly you treat it.
HARLEQUIN. Was there ever such an insane woman? Stop it, Finette, or I really will give you a beating.
FINETTE. Beat me, beat me!
HARLEQUIN. Where did that halfwit run off to? It’s true what they say—love deprives men of their reason. Stop it, I say, Finette—here comes another madman, in love with himself or with his own shadow by the look of him. He wants to speak to us—lay off, Finette.
SCENE SEVEN
Enter Count Stello.
COUNT. I’m glad to see you, my friends—you can help me act out a caprice that came into my head last night. It will be both charming and fantastic.
FINETTE. As your caprices invariably are, my charming Count.
COUNT. Is it true that you are to perform a pantomime here today?
HARLEQUIN. You have not been misinformed. I trust that we shall have the pleasure of seeing you among the spectators?
COUNT. Much better than that: you shall see me among the performers.
HARLEQUIN. What? The Count wishes to do us the honor of acting with us?
COUNT. That’s exactly what I wanted to discuss with you. Naturally, you are not to know that my friend Narcisetto and I are no mean dancers—anyone who has seen us will confirm that. My idea, then, is that Narcisetto and I should take part in the pantomime—incognito, of course. We’ll put on your company’s masks; I would like to be dressed as Mademoiselle Finette, and my friend will be dressed as Harlequin. We shall imitate your gestures and steps, so that no one will be able to tell who are the real Harlequin and Columbine and who their doubles. That will be amusing, don’t you think?
FINETTE. As everything is that our dear Count contrives.
HARLEQUIN. And your friend dances too?
COUNT. No worse than I.
FINETTE. A pretty lad, your Narcisetto. If I were you, I wouldn’t let him out of my sight, I’d be so jealous. Ah, love is so fleeting, so fleeting.
COUNT. True—but what can jealousy do about it?
FINETTE. Jealousy can do a great deal.
HARLEQUIN. Then we’ll go and get some costumes ready for you and prepare for the performance in general.
Harlequin and Finette go out.
SCENE EIGHT
COUNT. (alone)
We revel until break of day.
The festive masks we wear are gay.
E finita la commedia,
But we must play, and play, and play.
SCENE NINE
Enter Narcisetto.
NARCISETTO. Stello, I must talk with you.
COUNT. Not now, Narcisetto, not now. The day and night before us are to be given over to folly and gaiety! If you knew what I’ve thought up!
NARCISETTO. Stello, I absolutely must talk with you now.
COUNT. But what has happened? Does not my house stand where it has always stood, do not the pigeons coo on the Piazza San Marco, do not the gondolas glide, do not I love you as before? What is there for us to talk about?
NARCISETTO. Something very important happened today.
COUNT. Has a bad dream disturbed you, my friend?
NARCISETTO. You seem in a carefree mood today, Stello.
COUNT. Indeed I am! Let’s go—I’ll tell you about my scheme. You’ll be charmed with it!
NARCISETTO. I beg you to listen to me, Stello.
COUNT. Later, later!
He goes out.
SCENE TEN
Enter the Marquise Marcobruno, the Abbé, Grobuffi and Maria.
MARQUISE. It’s absolutely essential that I see signor Harlequin before the performance begins.
ABBE. I’ll do everything in my power, but I doubt whether your endeavors will be crowned with success… Grobuffi, get away from Maria! . . I hear music approaching.
MARQUISE. You must be suffering from auditory hallucinations, Abbé: there is no music approaching, everything is quiet, and I absolutely must see Harlequin in order to arrange another rendezvous.
ABBE. Surely Madame la Marquise was not dissatisfied with the first one?
MARQUISE. In the first place, if I had been dissatisfied I would not wish for a repeat performance; in the second place, certain details remain unclear in my mind.
ABBE. With regard to Harlequin or to his apprentices?
MARQUISE. I was speaking in general, you naughty man.
ABBE. This time I’m certainly not suffering from auditory hallucinations: I can hear music quite clearly, and I trust that you can hear it too.
MARQUISE. Yes, I can hear it. How vexing that I didn’t have a chance to speak to Harlequin.
PANTOMIME
A procession of players comes into view, followed by the crowd. Dances. The Count and Narcisetto appear in the costumes of Columbine and Harlequin. A game of shuttlecock. The procession moves back across the bridge. Narcisetto and the Count make up the final pair; as they cross the bridge, Narcisetto silently stabs his friend, kisses him and throws the body noiselessly into the canal. A burst of laughter comes from the window of the gambling den and then dies away. Narcisetto runs down from the bridge and Finette runs forward to meet him.
SCENE ELEVEN
HARLEQUIN. Respected patrons, we are called travelling players for the reason that we are unable to remain in one spot even for a single performance. The prologue, so to speak, of the play will be given here, but the pantomime itself will be performed elsewhere. In that way our audience will not get tired of standing or sitting in one place and will feel more at their ease. Silence! We are about to begin!
SCENE TWELVE
FINETTE. What have you done? What have you done, Narcisetto? Have you killed him?
NARCISETTO. Yes.
FINETTE. Did you do it for love of me, Narcisetto?
NARCISETTO. Yes.
FINETTE. You love me then?
NARCISETTO. I love nobody but the Count. I never loved anyone but him.
FINETTE. I see. So that’s your great love for me, Narcisetto!
NARCISETTO. I hate you, Finette—get away from me! Stello! Stello!
SCENE THIRTEEN
Enter Harlequin, the players and the crowd.
HARLEQUIN. Where did you disappear to, Finette? You and the Count and Narcisetto? We can’t carry on the show without you.
FINETTE. Sssh, Harlequin, ssh! We can’t carry on the show anyway. (softly) Narcisetto has killed Count Stello—we must leave at once.
HARLEQUIN. Can that be possible, Finette?
FINETTE. It’s more than possible. Let’s leave, Harlequin, please let’s leave quickly.
ALL. What’s happened? What’s happened?
HARLEQUIN. (loudly) Respected ladies and gentlemen, nothing at all has happened—it’s just that time is short and we have to leave for Verona at once. It had completely slipped our minds that we were due to appear there so soon that we’ll hardly have time to get there. We thank you for the gracious welcome accorded us and for all the attentions you have shown us. We hope that you will remain loyal to us in the future. Good-bye. I trust that we shall meet again soon!
FINETTE. (sings)
Let not our deeds discomfort you or daunt,
You honest burghers, pups and poppinjays.
What is our life if not a merry jaunt?
Actors all of us in plays.
Verona today, tomorrow Rome,
We dance, we sing, call everywhere home.
Clear skies today, tomorrow rain—
Wring joy from today, lest tomorrow bring pain.
Stand not amazed at altered circumstance.
In life we all play parts, some well, some ill,
But in the giddy whirl of change and chance
We serve Another’s will.
Verona today, tomorrow Rome,
We dance, we sing, call everywhere home.
Clear skies today, tomorrow rain—
Wring joy from today, lest tomorrow bring pain.
We do not forge ourselves unneeded chains
From life’s encounters, be they grave or gay.
Players are we, ready to take our gains
And go our careless way.
Verona today, tomorrow Rome,
We dance, we sing, call everywhere home.
Clear skies today, tomorrow rain—
Wring joy from today, lest tomorrow bring pain.
Should our indulgent patrons be content,
Clap hands—we give you leave—and cry “bravo,”
And should tomorrow find you pleasure bent—
Come see tomorrow’s show.
Verona today, tomorrow Rome,
We dance, we sing, call everywhere home.
Clear skies today, tomorrow rain—
Wring joy from today, lest tomorrow bring pain.
1914