TO ONE DEAD
Shaking nights, noons tame and dust-quiet, and wind-broken days
Were hands modelling your face.
Yet people glanced at you and pass on.
And now they speak of you,
Quickly weighing tiny, stray chips of you:
They who did not know you.
THE MASTER-POISONER
Maxwell Bodenheim and Ben Hecht
People
| Sobe | The Poisoner |
| Fana | His Wife |
| Maldor | His Assistant |
The Poisoner’s living-room. Purple velvet draperies embroidered with huge lavendar and orange lilies hang over the rear wall, completely covering it. One great scarlet cushion, four feet high and five feet wide, stands at the center of the wall against the draperies. The right and left walls have two small, narrow windows near the top, through which a dimly glowing light pours, forming a triangle as it strikes the floor. A narrow tall entrance blocked by orange-colored portieres stands in the center of the right and left walls. The floor is black and uncovered. A huge black candle three inches wide and five feet high emerges from a black urn in the center of the floor, bisecting the triangle formed by the two streams of pale light. White and scarlet cushions are scattered about the floor. On two of these cushions sit Sobe, the Poisoner, and Maldor, his Assistant. They sit to the left and right of the candle, eyeing each other with a softly-smiling melancholy. Sobe is tall, black-bearded, condor-faced, and clad in an orange robe, and black sandals. Maldor is short and smooth-shaven, with the face of a sleepy girl. He wears a white robe and sandals.
Maldor (puzzled and wistful, speaks softly to the Poisoner)
A secretion from the intestines of the cane-rat found in the Hwang-Ho river, sprinkled with the pollen of jasmine-flowers, produces a most wonderful poison, O Master. When dropped into the eyes of a virgin, this poison will cause her face to contract in a twitching crescendo.
Sobe (speaks listlessly)
The eyes of a virgin are too blank for a poisoner’s relish.
Maldor (speaks with eager, hopeful emphasis)
The virgin, O Master, provides only the unimportant tinge to the process. The relish lies in the pompous complexity of the poison.
Sobe
Complexity is but a shattered mirror.
Maldor (still hopefully)
From the irridescent dimples of the Medusae fish I have extracted a saffron liquid, O master, which mixed with the larvae of dragon-flies, completes a most satisfactory poison. Administered in microscopic doses, it creates ribbons of flame in the blood and its enchanting victim expires, glowing with strange, phosphorescent colors.
Sobe
I am sick of suavely terrifying poisons.
Maldor (speaks wistfully)
What strange delicacy makes you almost brutal tonight, O Master?
Sobe (speaks as to himself)
Wearisome poisons. A droll flutter ... and then always that dainty monotony—death.
Maldor (speaks swiftly)
But surely our work still holds you, O Master. You have not become reconciled to the empty ferocity of death!
Sobe (speaks gently)
Ah, Maldor, our poisons lend their little flourishes merely to life. I would like to poison death.
Maldor (speaks aggrievedly)
But master, those cringing writhings, those indelicate squirmings and jocund acrobatics which our most fastidious poisons produce—what more tender satisfaction!
Sobe (listlessly)
They are but interludes leaving me languidly envious of death, my master.
Maldor (speaks with indignation)
You have no master! Your last poison of moth-blood produced an effect so exquisitely monstrous that even death was appalled. Ah, the bones of an old woman, dissolving within her, left her body, a loose grimace.
Sobe
I am sick of all these sterile grimaces.
Maldor (speaks slowly)
Some new and lethal poem has sighed itself into your heart.
Sobe (softly)
There are no poisons remaining. We have signalled death with many diverting gestures. We have fitted too many clownish shrouds.
Maldor
You are wistfully nervous. Some dream has burned your heart to an ashen bag.
Sobe
I will tell you, Maldor, what I have done.
Maldor
Surely, you have found no last contortion for life.
Sobe
I have found the ultimate contortion.
Maldor
Some nibbling horror....
Sobe
No, Beauty.
Maldor (after a pause)
Beware, master, beauty is life’s revenge upon death.
Sobe
You know very little. Beauty is the devourer of death.
Maldor (speaks slowly)
What poison is this?
Sobe (speaks gently)
A drop taken into the blood, no more. The skin becomes a milk-tinted pond in which wine-ghosts timidly bathe. The eyes, like purple breasted birds, beat against the day. The mouth blooms into splendours. Ah, Maldor, the drop releases beauty from her thousand prisons. The victim stands washed in a flood of light before which imagination dies.
Maldor (speaks maliciously)
What unique philanthropy is this? Has Sobe the Poisoner dreamed of immortality?
Sobe (gently)
Sobe the Poisoner has made a drop of poison which will create beauty and death. In the soul of its victim these two monsters meet and strive against each other. Immortal beauty and death remain clutched in a stifling caress. The poison, as it works upon its victim, renders her more radiant and beautiful each moment, and each moment it paralyses her heart.
Maldor
And then what happens?
Sobe
Bereft of life, but with a beauty which must resist death, the tortured one remains my own. Thus with my poison I become death’s master. Thus that which should die, does not die. Thus death advancing creates a flame which it cannot stifle.
Maldor
Beware.
Sobe (speaks with quickened emphasis)
Death is my slave. I summon him. I open a jewelled gate which he cannot pass.
Maldor (speaks softly)
I do not like this poison.
Sobe (who smiles)
You are an amateur of death, Maldor.
Maldor (softly)
I do not like this poison.
Sobe
I will tell you another virtue of this poison, which perhaps will entice your fears.
Maldor
What is this virtue?
Sobe
Other poisons I have made provided us only with that little frenzied prelude to death. Our victims have amused us somewhat, with unconscious heavings—little, docile marionettes in the torments of poisons. But now, Maldor, our subject, inspired by the ever-increasing loveliness of her body, by the ever-growing flame of her beauty, resists in a torment beyond those instinctive spasms and dimly-felt agonies. Her overwhelming desire to prolong her beauty makes the struggle against death wondrously hideous.
Maldor
But since you say she cannot die, where will those struggles lead her?
Sobe
I do not know. I know only that a woman whose beauty feeds upon the shadows of death, must amuse us with a miracle.
Maldor (softly)
The virtue of this poison does not appeal to me. The miracle you promise is cluttered with subtle doubts. Death, betrayed, may blindly wander. Let us rather return to our pathetically certain poisons and revel in the final froth-sprinkled caperings of life. Ah, the powdered hair of the white caterpillar, steeped in moon-light, will cause the eyes to swell out of their sockets, and the tongue to burst.
Sobe (gently)
Where is Fana?
Maldor
Fana!
Sobe
Summon Fana to me.
Maldor
Master, do not summon Fana.
Sobe
I shall make Fana beautiful.
(Fana draws aside the portieres at the left. Fana is tall, with a majestic ugliness. She is dressed in a dark brown robe. Her face is swathed in a pale brown veil, knotted at the nape of the neck, and falling almost to her feet. She stands motionless. The two men turn and stare at her.)
Sobe (softly)
I shall bring the poison.
(He rises and departs through the right entrance. Maldor rises and continues to look steadily at Fana.)
Fana (gently)
I heard the word beauty.
Maldor
What else did you hear?
Fana
I heard only the word beauty.
Maldor
The master is evil tonight.
Fana
More evil than always?
Maldor
Even more.
Fana
What does he do?
Maldor
He frightens me with a mockery of death.
Fana
What did he say of beauty?
Maldor
Fana, go before he returns.
(Maldor quickly walks to the right entrance, draws aside the portieres, and peers cautiously out. He returns quickly to Fana.)
Maldor (speaking quickly)
He has a poison to make you beautiful.
Fana
Ah!
Maldor
Go!
Fana
Is he weary of my ugliness?
Maldor
No. He has no thought for you. He seeks to enslave his master, Death.
Fana
But I did hear him speak of beauty.
Maldor (desperately)
He means to make you the flowered tomb of beauty. I can tell you no more. Go!
Fana
Why do you tell me this? I have seen you smile upon things less subtle than tombs.
Maldor
I love you.
Fana
It is easy to love that which is veiled. But perhaps you love me because my face is so gentle a poison.
Maldor
I know not ugliness. It is a mood which has forsaken me. I plead with you to go.
(Maldor hears Sobe’s footfalls and seats himself impassively upon his cushion.)
Fana (softly)
I shall remain.
(Sobe enters. He bows to Fana.)
Sobe
Ah, Fana, I shall make your stay pleasant.
Fana—
Yes, Master.
(She seats herself behind the candle between Sobe and Maldor.)
Sobe (gently)—
You are very ugly, Fana. You wear a veil because you are ugly.
Fana—
I heard you speak of beauty.
Sobe—
Your body is like a broken cloud. Your face is like a pottery that crumbles in the light. You are not beautiful.
Fana (softly)—
Why do you tell me this so carefully?
Sobe—
To make you dream.
Fana—
Dreams are mirrors in which I do not care to look.
Sobe—
I have a poison that will open your hearts to dreams.
Fana—
The dream which poison brings is too long.
Sobe—
This poison brings two dreams. One of beauty and one of death. Would you listen to them?
Fana—
Listening to dreams one avoids the dreariness of sleep.
Sobe (gently)—
You are very ugly, Fana. I have a poison which will make you beautiful.
Fana—
To lie beautiful in death is a lyric privilege, but so faint an echo.
Sobe—
You reason too simply. I cannot promise you life. Perhaps your pleasure will be only that of one who greets a phantom lover. A moment of loveliness and the thought of eternal beauty embalmed in a dark dream, may be all that shall be given to you before death.
Fana
And what else is possible?
Sobe
It is possible that you will become so beautiful that you cannot die. It is possible that Death, feeding your beauty, will exhaust itself in a last gentle caress. Then you will still live, and Death, a eunuch, will drag himself after you.
Fana
But why do you speak so eagerly? Surely your only interest does not lie in my exchanging one veil for another.
Maldor (breaking his silence softly)
No, Fana, my master dreams of edged subtleties.
Sobe
Make them simple with your telling, Maldor.
Maldor
My master is weary of ordinary effects. He has watched too many frenzied struggles. No longer do they intrigue him. He yearns for something elaborate. He has dreamed of more fragile tortures. The poison he will give you brings no pain, but the beauty it creates within you will sharpen to madness your desire to live, and my master will sit and look into your eyes.
Sobe
Have you finished, Maldor?
Maldor
Yes.
Sobe (gently)
I desire another assistant, Fana. As you see, one who will serve me more faithfully, and whose loves are not so obvious. I will tell you why I am so eager. I wish simply to master death.
Fana
Have you the poison?
Sobe
Here.
(He takes from his robe a small flagon and hands it to her.)
Sobe
I have hidden the drop in wine.
(Fana rises and lifts her veil from her mouth. She drinks, smiling at Maldor, who sits and stares impassively ahead of him. Sobe rises and moves to the back of the room, watching her.)
Fana
I have drunk.
Sobe (softly)
Unveil yourself.
(Fana unveils herself.)
Sobe
Ah!
(He draws aside a panel portiere in the rear draperies, and a long narrow mirror is revealed.)
Sobe
Look.
Fana
Ah!
Sobe (gazing at her intently)
You are beautiful.
Fana (whispering)
I grow more beautiful.
Sobe (he speaks as if growing dazed)
Your eyes....
Fana
My eyes are like madly swinging torches.
Sobe
Your mouth....
Fana
My mouth is like the little red door to a palace.
Sobe
Your hair....
Fana (eyeing the mirror still)
My hair is like a misty pageant.
Sobe
Your body....
Fana
The wine of my body drenches my clothes.
Sobe
You grow more beautiful.
Fana (becomes exultant)
My beauty gathers over me like rose-flooded armor.
Sobe (whispering)
Death slashes at your armor.
Fana (exultant)
I cannot die.
Sobe
The poison glides softly through your blood.
Fana (she speaks softly)
I cannot die.
(She turns and looks at him.)
Sobe (shrinking back)
Do not look upon me.
(Fana flings out both her arms and moves toward him. She speaks in a strange voice.)
Fana
What pleasures do you see in my eyes?
Sobe (gasping)
The poison ... take it away....
Fana (she sings)
My beauty, my beauty is a wildly chanting torrent.
Sobe (speaks and holds his throat and gasps)
Death staggers from you ... and death blindly wanders....
Fana (comes closer to him and speaks mockingly)
Ah, poisoner.
Sobe (in anguish)
My heart breaks. (He staggers; speaks faintly.) I am Death’s master!
(He staggers another step forward and pitches headlong across the scarlet cushion on which he sat. Maldor leans forward and touches his throat as Fana softly laughs.)
Maldor
He is dead.
(Maldor straightens himself and stares impassively ahead of him. Fana remains an instant staring at herself in the mirror, then turns, and with an enigmatic smile, passes out of the room.)
[Curtain]
POET’S HEART
People
| The Mad Shepherd |
| The Narcissus Peddler |
| The Slender Nun |
| The Wine Jar Maiden |
| The Poet |
A great window of palest purple light. The lower corner of the window is visible. A dark purple wall frames the window, and narrow rectangles of the wall, below and to the left of the window-corner, are visible. Before the window corner is the portion of a pale pink floor. One tall thin white candle stands against the dark purple rectangle of wall to the left of the window-corner. It bears a narrow flame which remains stationary. Soft and clear light pours in from the window-corner and dim shapes stand behind it. The Mad Shepherd appears from the left. He holds a reed to his lips, but does not blow into it. A long brown cloak drapes him: black sandals are on his feet. His black hair caresses his shoulders; his face is young. He pauses, three-fourths of his body framed by the palest purple window-corner.
The Mad Shepherd (addressing the palest purple window-corner)
I’ve lost a tune. It’s a spirit-rose, and a reed-limbed boy ran before me and whisked it past my ears before I could seize him. Have you seen him, window clearer than the clashing light-bubbles in a woman’s eyes? (A pause.) I sat on a rock in the midst of my sheep and smiled at the piping of my young soul, as it climbed a spirit-tree. Soon it would whirl joyously on the tip of the tree, and my heart would turn with it. Then the song brushed past me and made my head a burning feather dropping down. I stumbled after it, over the sun-dazed hills, and the reed-limbed boy would often stop, touch both of my eyes with the song-flower, and spring away. I saw him dance into this black palace. I followed, through high corridors, to you, palest purple window, towering over me like a silent mass of breath-clear souls. He has gone. Palest purple window, tell me where he is?
(There is a short silence. The Mad Shepherd stands despairingly fingering his reed. The Narcissus Peddler appears from the right. He is an old man, a huge basket of cut narcissus strapped to his back. His body is tall and slender; his face a bit yellow, with a long silver-brown beard. His head is bare. He wears a black velvet coat, pale yellow shirt, soft grey, loose trousers, and black sandals. He rests his basket upon the floor. The Mad Shepherd takes a step toward him, wearily.)
The Narcissus Peddler
A Voice walked into me, one day. How he found me, sleeping between two huge purple hills, I do not know. He said with a laugh that had ghosts of weeping in it that he knew a garden where narcissus flowers grew taller than myself. What was there to do?—my soul and I, we had to walk with him. He led us to this palace, spinning the thread of a laugh behind him so that we could follow. But now he has gone, and there is no garden—only a palest purple window.
The Mad Shepherd
We can leap through this window, but it may be a trap.
The Narcissus Peddler
Or a dream?
The Mad Shepherd
Perhaps this is a dream that is true—an endless dream.
The Narcissus Peddler
Can that be death?
Mad Shepherd (pointing to the other’s basket)
With death, you would have left your narcissus behind you, for fragrance itself.
Peddler
If my life has melted to an endless dream, my chase is over. I shall sit here and my soul will become an endless thought of narcissus.
(He seats himself beside his basket; Shepherd stands despairingly; the Slender Nun appears from the right: She is small and her body like a thin drooping stem; she wears the black dress of a nun but her child face is uncovered. Her feet are bare. She stops, standing a step away from the Peddler.)
The Slender Nun
I see a candle that is like an arm stiffened in prayer. (She pauses.) Palest purple window, is my soul standing behind you and spreading to light that gently thrusts me down? A flamed-loosed angel lifted it from me. I ran after him. He seemed to touch you, window, like a vapor kiss dying upon pale purple silk. (A pause.) Must I stand here always waiting for my soul, like a flower petal pressed deep into the earth by passing feet?
The Shepherd
You have lost a soul and I a tune. Let me make you the tune and you make me your soul. You could sit with me on my rock in the hills and make a soul of my reed-rippling, and, piping of you, I might weave a new tune.
The Nun
Can you give me a soul that will be Christ floating out in clear music? Only then I would go with you.
Shepherd (sadly)
My music is like the wet, quick kiss of rain. It knows nothing of Christ.
(A short silence.)
(The Wine-Jar Maiden appears from the right. She is tall and pale brown; upon her head is a long pale green jar; her hair is black and spurts down. Her face is wide but delicately twisted. She wears a thin simple pale green gown, with a black girdle about her waist, one tasseled end hanging down. She stops a little behind the Slender Nun, and lowers her wine-jar to the floor. The Nun turns and partly faces her. The Narcissus Peddler looks up from where he has sat, in a reverie, beside his basket.)
The Wine-Jar Maiden
My heart was a wine jar stained with the roses of frail dreams and filled with wine that had turned to shaking, purple mist. One day I felt it wrenched from me, and mist-drops that flew from it, as it left, sank into my breast and made me shrink. I could not see the thief, but I followed the scent of my heart trailing behind him. It brought me here; but at this palest purple window it died. Scent of my heart, have you spread over this huge window, and must I stand forever looking upon you?
(The Narcissus Peddler slowly rises and takes a stride toward the palest purple window.)
The Narcissus Peddler
That dim shape behind the window—I believe it is a huge narcissus. I am a rainbow-smeared knave to stand here juggling little golden balls of dreams. I shall spring through the window.
The Slender Nun
Take my hand when you spring. Perhaps this is God’s forehead, and we shall melt into it, like billows of rain washing into a cliff.
The Wine-Jar Maiden
If I leap through this window, a cloak of my heart-scent may hang to me. I shall touch the cloak, now and then, and that shall be my life.
The Mad Shepherd
I must sit here, and whirl with my young spirit. If I cannot knit together strands of music better than the tune I ran after, then I should not have chased it.
(After a short silence the Narcissus Peddler and the Slender Nun, hand in hand, leap through the window-corner and vanish. The Wine Jar Maiden leaps after them, a moment later, and also disappears. The Mad Shepherd sits down and blows little fragments of piping into his reed, long pauses separating them. As he does this, he looks up at the window, his head motionless. The Narcissus Peddler, the Slender Nun and the Wine Jar Maiden appear from the left walking slowly, in single file, as though in a trance. The Narcissus Peddler stands beside his basket, which he left behind him; the Wine Jar Maiden beside her jar, and the Slender Nun between them.)
The Mad Shepherd (looking up, astonished)
You return, like sleep-drooping poplar trees that have been given wings, and after long journeyings, fly back to their little blue-green hills.
The Narcissus Peddler
After we sprang we found ourselves in a high corridor, whose air was like the breath of a dying maiden—the corridor we first walked down, before we came to this palest purple window.
The Mad Shepherd (wonderingly)
A dream with a strange, buried, quivering palace whose doors are closed....
(The poet quietly appears from the right. He is dressed in a deep crimson robe, pale brown turban and black sandals; his head is bare. He surveys the others a moment, then touches the shoulder of the Wine Jar Maiden. She turns and stares at him. The others turn also.)
You are all in my heart—a wide space with many buried, black palaces, huge pale-purple windows, hills with rocks for mad shepherds, strolling flower-venders, wine-jar maidens dancing in high courtyards hushed with quilted star-light, and sometimes a slender nun walking alone through the aisles of old reveries. I have woven you into a poem, and you were drawn on by me. But when my poems are made I take my people to a far-off garden in my heart. There we sit beneath one of the shining trees and talk. There I shall give you your soul, your heart, your song—and your huge narcissus flower. And out of them make other poems, perhaps? Who knows? Come.
(He leads them away.)