ACT III—THE BALL GIVEN BY THE MAN
[A grand ball is in progress in the salon of the mansion which the Man has built for himself. The scene is a large, square, lofty room with smooth, white walls and ceiling and a polished floor. Yet a certain discrepancy in the proportions of some of the minor features of the apartment conveys to the beholder a sort of vague, unsatisfactory impression, as though something were wanting, or discordant, or superfluous, or bizarre—one cannot exactly tell which. For instance, the doors are small as compared with the windows, and constitute, with the latter, the only features breaking the monotony of the apartment's outline. The windows, too, are of immense size. Reaching almost to the ceiling, they are placed only in the rear wall, and in close juxtaposition to one another, while their panes show black with the darkness of the outer night, and neither spot nor speck breaks the wall spaces between them. Eloquent testimony to the wealth of the Man is afforded by the superabundance of gilding on the cornices, chairs, and picture-frames; yet the pictures are but few in number, and confined to the side walls, of which they form the sole adornment. Light is furnished by hoop-shaped lustres and a few scattered electric globes. Nevertheless, though the ceiling is in brilliant relief, the rest of the room is in slight shadow—a circumstance which imparts a kind of greyish tinge to the walls. In general, the scene has about it an air of pallor and chill.
[The ball is in full swing—the music being furnished by an orchestra of three players, each of whom bears a certain resemblance to his instrument. The fiddler has a long, thin neck and a small head ornamented on both sides with little tufts of hair. His body is grotesquely curved in outline, and he has a handkerchief neatly folded on his shoulder, to form a pad for his fiddle. The flute player resembles his flute in that he is exceedingly tall and thin, with long, lean face and taper legs; while the man with the double-bass is short, with broad, rounded shoulders, a fat body, and baggy trousers. All three executants play with an energy which is manifested even in their faces as they grind out the tune and sway their heads and bodies to and fro to the rhythm. The tune in question (which is never once changed throughout the ball) consists of a short, polka-like air, made up of two separate parts, and charged with a sort of vapid, jaunty, staccato lilt. All the instruments are slightly out of tune with one another, and this sometimes causes the discrepancies in pitch and tempo to give rise to an extraordinary series of dissonances and gaps in the melody. The following is the tune:—
[Original]
To these strains a number of young men and girls are dancing a legato measure in a graceful, refined manner. To the first phrase of the tune they advance and meet; to the second phrase they retire; to the third and fourth they advance and retire as before—all with a rather stately, old-fashioned demeanour.
[Along the walls are seated a number of chaperons and other guests, in a variety of studiedly affected attitudes. Their movements are stiff and angular, and their remarks stilted and spasmodic. Never is the correctness of their tone lowered by, for instance, light laughter or whispering. Gazing straight in front of them, with their hands primly folded on their laps and their wrists stuck out so sharply as to convey the impression that those members have been fractured, these onlookers mouth their sentences in the sententious fashion of copybooks, and express, in their whole bearing, a sort of disdainful weariness. Indeed, so absolutely monotonous and uniform in expression are their fades that the latter would seem to have been turned out of one and the same mould—a mould which has stamped them with a stereotyped air of conceit and arrogance, coupled with a certain dull respect for the Man's wealth. The dancers are dressed in white, the musicians in black, and the remaining guests in white, black, or yellow. In the right-hand front corner of the stage (a corner in deeper shadow than the rest of the scene') stands the motionless figure of the Being in Grey. The candle in his hand is now burnt away for two-thirds of its length, yet its flame is still strong and yellow, and continues to throw lurid gleams over the statuesque face and chin of the Being.]
Dialogue of the Guests.
I feel it my bounden duty to remark that to be numbered among the guests at any ball given by the Man is indeed an honour!
Yes; and to that you might have added that only a very limited circle of persons are permitted to attain to that honour. My husband, my sons, my daughters, and myself are profoundly sensible of the privilege which has been accorded us.
I am truly sorry for those who have not had the good fortune to receive an invitation to the ball. Never this night, I fear, will they be able to close their eyes in sleep, by reason of the pangs of envy. Yet on the morrow they will not hesitate to speak in disparaging terms of the fêtes which the Man periodically gives.
Ah, but never have they looked upon such brilliancy as we see here to-night!
No, never! Nor, you might have added, upon such luxury and wealth!
Nor upon such enchanting, such soul-emancipating gaiety! If this be not gaiety, then I know not what gaiety is. But let that pass. 'Tis ill quarrelling with persons who writhe in the pangs of envy. Yet I will venture to foretell that those same persons will presumptuously assert that these were not gilded chairs upon which we are now sitting—not gilded chairs!
No; mere deteriorated articles, purchased, for a trifling sum, from some secondhand dealer!
They will say, too, that those beautiful electric globes were tallow candles of the commonest quality!
Yes—mere farthing dips!
Or trashy oil lamps! Oh, tongues of envy!
Peradventure they will have the effrontery to deny that the mansion has gilded cornices?
Or that to the pictures on the walls there are the massive gilded frames which we see before us? For my part, I seem to hear the veritable chink of gold in this palace.
Well, at all events we behold its glitter: and that, in my opinion, is as good.
Seldom has it fallen to my lot to enjoy such ravishing strains as those which always greet our ears at balls given by the Man. They constitute the veritable music of the spheres, and waft the soul from earth to higher regions.
Yes, in truth do they! Yet we have some reason to expect that the music should be of the finest quality, seeing that the Man is in a position to pay the immense fees demanded by the musicians. You must recollect that this is the most distinguished orchestra of the day, and plays at all the most recherché functions.
Ah, one could listen to such strains for ever! They simply enchant one's sense of hearing! I may inform you that, for days and nights after one of these balls given by the Man, my sons and daughters never cease to hum the tunes which they have heard there.
At times I seem to hear such divine music when I am walking in the streets. I gaze around me, but neither instrument nor player is to be seen.
And I hear it in my dreams.
What appears to me so especially excellent about these musicians is that they play with such abandon. Though aware of the immense fees which they are entitled to demand for their services, they are yet good enough to refrain from giving nothing in return. That seems to me particularly right and proper.
Yes. 'Tis as though the musicians completely-identified themselves with their instruments, so great is the verve with which they surrender themselves to their playing.
Or, rather, as though their instruments identified themselves with them.
How rich it all is!
Flow sumptuous!
How brilliant!
How luxurious!
[And so on, for a considerable time, like a pack of dogs barking one against the other.]
I would have you to know that, in addition to this salon, the mansion contains no fewer than fifteen magnificent apartments. I have seen them all. The dining-room is fitted with a fireplace which can accommodate whole trunks of trees. The drawing-room, too, and boudoir are simply gorgeous, while the state bedroom is not only an apartment of the most gigantic dimensions, but is actually furnished with bedsteads to which baldaquins are attached!
Indeed? You surprise me! Baldaquins?
Yes, I said baldaquins. Pray permit me to continue what I was saying. The son of the house lives in a beautiful, bright nursery, lined throughout with yellow wood and gilding, so that the sun seems for ever to be shining there. And the little fellow is so charming! He has curls like the rays of the sun himself.
Yes, indeed! When one looks upon him one involuntarily exclaims, "The sun has just come out."
And when one gazes into his eyes one involuntarily thinks, "Ah! Now are the chill autumn and winter passed, for there is blue sky to be seen."
The Man loves the boy to distraction. He has just bought him a pony—a beautiful, pure white pony—to ride on. Now, my children——
Well, as we were saying. Have I yet told you of the bathroom?
No, you have not.
It is a truly marvellous apartment.
Ah! Is it indeed?
Yes; with hot water always laid on. Then there is the Man's study, replete with books—endless books. He is said to be immensely clever—and of a truth you could tell that from the number of the books alone.
I have seen the gardens. Have you?
Indeed? No, I have not.
And I am not ashamed to confess that they simply astounded me. In them I saw the most marvellous lawns—all of an emerald green, and mown with surprising neatness, with little paths intersecting them, lined with the finest of red sand. And the flowers, too! And the palm-trees!
Palm-trees?
Yes, I said palm-trees. Every shrub is pruned into a shape of some kind, such as a pyramid or a column of green foliage. Then there is a fountain with huge globes of glass, and, in the centre of the main lawn, a number of plaster gnomes and sirens.
How splendid!
How brilliant!
How luxurious!
[And so on, as before.]
The Man also did me the honour to show me his coach-houses and stables, until I found myself wholly unable to repress the admiration evoked in me by the spectacle of the horses and carriages which they contained. His motor-car, too, made a great impression upon me.
And, to think of it, he has no fewer than seventeen attendants for his person alone, in addition to the general staff of cooks, kitchen-maids, housemaids, gardeners, and so forth!
And grooms, surely?
Yes, and grooms.
Of course, it is only right and proper that the Man and his Wife should have everything done for them, seeing that they are personages of such high degree.
Yes; and for the same reason it is all the more an honour for us to be included among the number of their guests.
But do you not find the music just a trifle—well, monotonous?
No, I do not, and I am surprised that you should do so. Surely you know who the musicians are?
Yes; I was but jesting. I could listen to such strains for ever. There is something in them which especially appeals to me.
And to me also.
It is delightful to be able to surrender oneself to their influence, and to become absorbed in dreams of ecstatic bliss.
It is not too much to say that they waft one's soul to the very empyrean.
How delightful it all is!
How splendid!
How luxurious!
[And so on, as before.]
But I see a movement at that door. Probably the Man and his Wife are making their entry into the salon.
See how the musicians are redoubling their efforts!
There they come! There they come!
Yes, there they come! There they come!
[The Man and his Wife appear at a low door on the right, accompanied by the Man's Friends and Enemies. They cross the salon obliquely to a door on the left, walking in solemn procession, and causing the dancers to divide and leave a clear space for them. The musicians play more loudly, and more extravagantly out of tune, than ever.
[The Man looks much older than he did in Act II, and a sprinkling of grey is noticeable in his long hair and beard. Yet his face is still handsome and vigorous. He walks with a sort of calm dignity and aloofness, and gazes straight in front of him, as though he were not aware of the presence of the surrounding company. His Wife, too, looks older, but still beautiful, as she leans upon his arm. Like her husband, she seems to see none of the surrounding company, but gazes in front of her with a strange, half-apprehensive expression. They are both of them magnificently dressed.
[Behind the Man and his Wife come the Man's Friends. The latter are uniformly like one another, with aristocratic faces, high, open foreheads, and candid eyes. They move with dignity—expanding their chests, setting down their feet with firmness and assurance, and gazing from side to side with faintly condescending smiles. They wear white buttonholes.
[Following them at a respectful distance come the Man's Enemies. These also bear a strong general resemblance to one another—their faces being vicious and cunning, their brows low and beetling, and their hands slender and apelike. They move as though ill at ease—jostling one another, hunching their shoulders, hiding behind one another, and throwing sharp, mean, envious glances about them. They wear yellow buttonholes.
[In this manner the procession moves slowly across the salon, without a word being spoken by any one of its members. The sound of their footsteps, combined with the strains of the musicians and the acclamations of the guests, gives rise to a sort of confused, discordant din.
Acclamations of the Guests.
There they are! There they are! What an honour for us!
How handsome he is!
What a manly face!
Look, look!
Yet he does not deign us even a glance!
No; although we are his guests!
He has not so much as seen us!
No matter. This is a great honour for us. And there is his Wife! Look, look!
How lovely she is!
But how proud!
Look at her diamonds, her diamonds!
Her diamonds, her diamonds!
And her pearls, her pearls!
And her rubies, her rubies!
How splendid! We are indeed honoured!
Yes, are we not? What an honour, what an honour!
[And so on, and so on.]
And there come the Man's Friends!
Look, look!
What aristocratic faces!
And what a haughty bearing!
Yes, for they reflect his glory.
And how attached to him they are!
And what true friends to him!
What an honour to be one of their number! They look at everything as though it were theirs.
Yes; they are at home here.
What an honour for us! What an honour! [And so on, and so on.]
And there come the Man's Enemies! Look, look! The Man's Enemies!
They crouch like whipped dogs!
Yes, for the Man has tamed them.
Yes, he has muzzled them.
See how they droop their tails between their legs!
And how they slink along!
And how they jostle one another!
Booh! Booh!
[General laughter.]
What vulgar faces!
And what greedy looks!
What a cowardly bearing!
What an envious air!
They are afraid to look at us.
Yes. They know that we have a better right than they to be here.
They need frightening a little more.
The Man will thank us for doing it.
Booh! Booh!
[The Guests receive the Man's Enemies with renewed jeers and laughter, while the Enemies crowd nervously upon one another, and throw sharp glances to right and left.]
There! They are going now! They are going now!
Truly an honour of the greatest kind has been done us!
Yes, they are going now!
Booh! Booh!
They have gone! They have gone!
[The procession disappears through a doorway to the left, and the din dies down a little. The music plays less loudly than before, and the dancers spread themselves over the floor again.]
Where have they gone to?
To the great dining-room, I suppose, where supper is to be served.
Then we may take it that we too will be invited presently?
Yes. Has not a lackey come to summon us?
I think it is high time we were sent for. If supper be served much later than this, we shall all of us sleep badly.
Yes, I assure you I always sup early.
A late supper lies so heavily on one's stomach!
The music still goes on.
Yes, and so do the dancers. Yet I am surprised that they have not tired of it.
How rich it is!
How sumptuous!
[And so on, as before.]
Did you see how many covers were laid for supper?
No. I had barely time to begin counting them before the butler entered the room and I had to depart.
Surely we have not been forgotten?
My good madam, please remember that (in his own eyes, at least) the Man is a very great personage, and that we are personages of small account.
No matter. My husband often asserts that it is we who do the Man honour by accepting his invitations—not the Man who does us honour by according them. We are rich ourselves, for that matter.
And if one should also take into account the reputation of his wife——!
Has any one seen a footman, sent to summon us to supper? Perhaps he is looking for us in one of the other rooms?
How rich the Man must be!
Yet wealth may be acquired without dipping one's hands into other people's pockets.
Hush! Only the Man's Enemies say that.
Indeed? And do they not comprise among their number men of the highest honour? My husband is one of them.
How late it is getting!
I think there must have been some misunderstanding here. I can scarcely suppose that we have purposely been forgotten.
Well, if you cannot suppose that, I must say that your knowledge of life and men is grossly deficient.
I am surprised. We ourselves are rich, but——
Hark! I think I heard some one call us.
'Twas only your fancy. No one has called us.
I feel it my bounden duty to remark that I cannot conceive how we ever came to permit ourselves to patronize a house which possesses such a dubious reputation. Of a surety we ought to pick and choose our acquaintances more carefully.
[Enter a footman, who cries aloud: "The Man and his Wife request the honour of their guests' company at supper." Upon this the Guests resume their conversation with a sigh of relief.]
What a splendid livery!
So the Man has invited us, after all!
I knew it was only a misunderstanding.
The Man is so goodhearted! In all probability he and his party themselves have not yet sat down to supper.
I told you a lackey would be sent to summon us.
What a magnificent livery he wore!
They say the supper is equally magnificent.
Oh, nothing is ever badly done in the Man's house.
What music! What an honour to be one of the guests at a ball given by the Man!
How persons must envy us who have not been accorded that honour!
How rich it all is!
How sumptuous!
[Repeating these ejaculations over and over again, the Guests begin to depart. Only one couple of dancers continue dancing; the rest follow the Guests in silence. For a little while the last couple continue their diversion; then they hasten to overtake their companions. Nevertheless the musicians play with unabated vigour.
[Presently a footman enters, and extinguishes all the lights save the furthest lustre. For a few moments afterwards the forms of the musicians are still distinguishable through the gloom as they sway themselves and their instruments to the music; but eventually nothing remains visible save the tall figure of the Being in Grey. The flame of the candle in his hand is now flickering heavily, yet its light remains strong and yellow, and throws the strong face and chin of the Being into sharp relief. Presently, without raising his head, he makes a slight turn towards the audience. Then, lit up by the glare of the candle's rays, he crosses the salon with slow and soundless footsteps, and disappears through the doorway by which the Guests and the dancers have made their exit.]