THIRD INNER SCENE
The Cloudy Curtains part, disclosing the tent of Brutus, by moonlight.
Brutus—his outer armor laid aside—sits on a couch: near him Lucius, a boy, nods drowsily over a stringed instrument. After a brief pause, Brutus—gazing at him—speaks wistfully:
BRUTUS Bear with me, good boy: Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile And touch thy instrument a strain or two?
LUCIUS Aye, my lord, an’t please you.
BRUTUS It does, my boy: I should not urge thy duty past thy might; I know young bloods look for a time of rest.
LUCIUS I have slept, my lord, already.
BRUTUS It was well done; and thou shalt sleep again; I will not hold thee long. If I do live I will be good to thee.
LUCIUS [Tuning his instrument, sings dreamily:]
Fear no more the frown o’ the great; Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke. Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the seed is as the oak. The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this and come to dust.
BRUTUS This is a sleepy tune. O murderous slumber, Lay’st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy That plays thee music? Gentle knave, good-night; I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee.— Let me see, let me see; is not the leaf turned down Where I left reading? Here it is, I think.
[The Ghost of Cæsar appears.]
How ill this taper burns!—Ha! Who comes here? I think it is the weakness of mine eyes That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me. Art thou anything? Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, That makest my blood cold and my hair to stare? Speak to me what thou art.
[In the darkness, dark ghostly shapes, hardly visible, appear to urge forward the dead Cæsar, who alone is luminous.]
THE GHOST Thy evil spirit, Brutus.
BRUTUS Why comest thou?
THE GHOST To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi.
BRUTUS Well; then I shall see thee again?
THE GHOST Aye, at Philippi.
BRUTUS Why, I will see thee at Philippi, then.
[The Ghost and the dim Shapes disappear. Brutus rises.]
Now I have taken heart, thou vanishest: Ill spirit, I would hold more talk with thee.— [Calling aloud.] Boy, Lucius! Romans, Romans! Awake—awake!
THE CLOUDY CURTAINS CLOSE
[Instantly, in the semi-darkness without, Caliban—with a great cry—springs among the Muses, snatches from Miranda the staff, and rushes with it to the centre of the middle stage, shouting aloud:]
CALIBAN Awake, Romans, awake! [Low thunders growl, and sharp flashes glimmer about him.]
MIRANDA [Cries out, appalled.] The staff! His staff! Touch not its power, lest thou lay waste the world!
CALIBAN [Grasping the staff, staggers and sways wildly with it, as though being shocked by an invisible force.] Rome! Now do I hold the roof-beam o’ the world. Now am I lord of lightnings: Lo, mine art Shaketh the throne of Prospero. [He strides upon the throne, raising the staff.] Awake, Imperial Rome! Return, ye snake-bright women Of Troy and Egypt! Stain these yellow sands Wine-red with spillings of your wreathèd bowls, And let the orgied priests of revel reign.— Caligula, be crowned by Setebos! Caligula! Caligula! Caligula!
[While he cries aloud, the Powers of Setebos come forth from the cell beneath, clad as Roman men, women, and slaves and, joined by the Roman Interlude Pageant on the ground-circle, raise the Emperor on a palanquin upon their shoulders, and bear him up the steps to the middle stage, shouting “Caligula!”
Here a scene of mingled riot and orgy follows:
Women dancers with golden bowls, slaves shackled and driven with whips, rabble groups scrambling for bread loaves flung them by heralds, armed soldiery, and gorgeous patrician lords: these swarm in a sordid saturnalia, from the midst of which the masked form of Caligula rises dominant in splendor. At his gesture, slaves tear the Muses from their shrine, and give them over to the revellers.
High above all, clutching the staff, his huge limbs rioting grotesque from his silken garments, Caliban dances on the throne of Prospero.
Below, bass voices of invisible choirs chant through the din:
“Setebos! Setebos! Thou art Setebos!”
Seized from the throne with the Muses, Miranda—at the centre—is borne in faint dread to the reaching arms of Caligula, who is about to place upon her his crown, when a sudden pealing of silvery trumpets strikes silence over all. In awe the revellers gaze upward, and turn toward the background, listening.
Above them there, from the darkness, appears a colossal CROSS, burning with white fire.
Caligula drops his crown.
Shadow falls on the colorful pageantry, and all sink slowly to their knees, as the Spirits of Ariel appear again above—their luminous wings outspread like seraphim.
At either end one blows a slim tapering trumpet.
High and clear, then, their choirs chant in Gregorian unison:
SPIRITS OF ARIEL Vexilla Regis pródeunt; Fulget Crucis mystérium, Quo carne carnis Cónditor Suspénsus est patíbulo.
Quo vulneratis ínsuper Mucróne diro lanceæ, Ut nos laváret crimine, Manavit unda et sánguine.
O Crux, ave, spes, unica: Hoc Passiónis témpore, Auge piis justítiam Reisque dona veniam.
Te summa Deus Trínitas, Collaudet omnis spiritus: Quos per Crucis mystérium Salvas, rege per sæcula.
During this chant, the dim revellers beneath bow their bodies more low.
And now, to faint organ music, the Cloudy Curtains, parting, reveal the INNER STAGE hung like an early Christian shrine in a catacomb—with primitive tapestries of dusky blue and gold. Against these in the glow of candles, an image of haloed Saint Agnes holds a white lamb, which silent shepherds are adoring. This group remains motionless as a tableau.
Then silently from either side two priests come forth with swinging censers. Passing forward and down the steps to the ground-circle, they are followed in the dim light by the Roman revellers, who rise and pass off through the Interlude gates.
Last of all rises Caligula, who pauses hesitant, looking back where Miranda still kneels, now grouped about by her Muses.
As he stoops to lift his crown from the earth, two Figures in the INNER SCENE—a Shepherd Boy, and a Shepherd wrapt in a hide mantle—stir from the still picture and come forward in a circle of light, while
THE CLOUDY CURTAINS CLOSE
behind them, and above the white cross vanishes.
Speaking from the place of light to the Emperor’s form in shadow, the Shepherd calls to him:]
THE EMPEROR Who calls?
THE SHEPHERD Reveal thyself— What thing thou art.
[Stepping slowly into the light, the EMPEROR bows himself before the SHEPHERD, holding up his crown which the Shepherd takes and says with a gesture:]
Lay off thy mask.
[Rising, the Emperor puts of his mask, revealing himself as the Priest of Setebos.]
Hail, Lust!
LUST [To the Shepherd.] Hail, Prospero!
PROSPERO [Putting of his sheepskin cloak, which the boy takes from him.] Return to Setebos. [To the Shepherd Boy.] Ariel, lead him below.
ARIEL So, Master! [Ariel leads Lust away to the cell beneath.]
MIRANDA [Rising, goes to Prospero’s arms.] Father! [From the outer dimness, Caliban—who, since the appearance of the burning Cross, has lain flat on the throne steps— now grovels forward [trailing his silken garment by one sleeve] and flings the staff of Prospero into the light space.]
CALIBAN No more! Will never touch it more!
PROSPERO [Staring at the staff.] A thousand years To build, and build for beauty, yet in one flare Of riot lust, a lubber idiot Confounds time and my toil.—Ah, daughter, daughter! How shall mine art reclaim this lapsing ape From his own bondage?
MIRANDA Sir, my heart is shaken; Yet the sweet sight of Agnes and her lamb Hath shown new comfort.
[Stooping, she lifts the staff and holds it toward him.]
Therefore, even as a Shepherd, Take up thy staff in patience, and urge still onward This poor sloughed sheep.
PROSPERO Yea, patience! Sun, moon, stars, And all that waxes hath its waning-hour; But patience is the night behind the stars, Steadfast through all eclipse.
[With his staff, he touches Caliban where he lies cringed.]
Stir, thou thick clot Of clay and god-spittle! Let thine atoms thaw To mud, where Prosper may imprint once more His blurrèd seal.
CALIBAN [Hoarsely, half rising.] Mud: yea, methought to be His Artist, and make dream-things of mine own Like Ariel his spirits, yet now—am mud.
MIRANDA [Pitifully.] Nay, star-dust!
ARIEL [Returning.] Master, from those far frontiers You visited, have you not brought us back More pageants of your art?
PROSPERO Yes, Ariel: Back from the dim bourns of the Middle Age Of Germany, France, Spain, and Italy. And now, for this slave’s tutelage, I’ll show you Their quaint moralities and mad-cap mirth. Come hither, and watch: Lo, olden Germany! Pageant of the north, appear.
SECOND INTERLUDE[16]
Once more, through the community gates of the ground-circle, appear, in contrasted ritual, successive Folk-Groups, that perform now episodic phases of the dramatic art of Europe in the Middle Ages. Concluding, each group departs.
First comes the Germanic, in part grimly austere, in part naïvely grotesque. On a portable, three-tiered stage this group enacts both audience and players of a popular morality play: a pantomime scene depicting—in heaven, earth, and hell—the tragic, romantic HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS.
This Action is followed by the contrasted splendor of a mediæval French scene. Here, in presence of the Kings of France and England, on THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD, is performed a colorful tournament on horseback.
Last follows a fusion of the Spanish and Italian groups in the Third Action: a light-hearted dramatic Scherzo, full of laughter, knavery, and romantic love, performed—in the midst of a festa—by the pied actors of the COMMEDIA DELL’ ARTE.
During this last Action, Prospero and Ariel [above] have withdrawn through the Cloudy Curtains, leaving Caliban alone, staring spellbound at the many-hued festival below him.