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Title: Caliban by the Yellow Sands - A Community Masque of the Art of the Theatre
Author: MacKaye, Percy
Language: English
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                   WORKS BY PERCY MACKAYE


              THE CANTERBURY PILGRIMS. A Comedy.
              JEANNE D’ARC. A Tragedy.
              SAPPHO AND PHAON. A Tragedy.
              FENRIS THE WOLF. A Tragedy.
              A GARLAND TO SYLVIA. A Dramatic Reverie.
              THE SCARECROW. A Tragedy of the Ludicrous.
              YANKEE FANTASIES. Five One-act Plays.
              MATER. An American Study in Comedy.
              ANTI-MATRIMONY. A Satirical Comedy.
              TO-MORROW. A Play in Three Acts.
              A THOUSAND YEARS AGO. A Romance of the Orient.
              THE IMMIGRANTS. A Lyric Drama.


              CALIBAN. A Shakespeare Masque.
              SAINT LOUIS. A Civic Masque.
              SANCTUARY. A Bird Masque.
              THE NEW CITIZENSHIP. A Civic Ritual.


              THE SISTINE EVE, and Other Poems.
              URIEL, and Other Poems.
              LINCOLN. A Centenary Ode.
              THE PRESENT HOUR.
              POEMS AND PLAYS. In Two Volumes.


              THE CIVIC THEATRE.
              A SUBSTITUTE FOR WAR.

                  _AT ALL BOOKSELLERS_

                 Uniform with this volume
                 SAINT LOUIS: A CIVIC MASQUE




                          BY THE YELLOW SANDS

                             PERCY MACKAYE


                      GARDEN CITY       NEW YORK
                       DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY


                         _Copyright, 1916, by_
                             PERCY MACKAYE

                _All rights reserved, including that of
                  translation into foreign languages,
                      including the Scandinavian_

      _All acting rights, and motion picture rights, are reserved
           by the author in the United States, Great Britain
                 and countries of the copyright Union_

                            SPECIAL NOTICE
              Regarding Public Performances and Readings

       No performance of this Masque—professional or amateur—and
       no public reading of it may be given without the written
       permission of the author and the payment of royalty.

       The author should be addressed in care of the publishers.

      During the Shakespeare Tercentenary season of 1916, the
      Masque--after its New York production at the City College
      Stadium, May 23, 24, 25, 26, 27--will be available for
      production elsewhere, on a modified scale of stage

      With proper organization and direction, amateur participants
      may take part in performances with or without the Interludes.

      For particulars concerning performances wholly amateur,
      address Miss Clara Fitch, Secretary Shakespeare Tercentenary
      Committee, 736 Marquette Building, Chicago, Ill.

      After June first, a professional company, which will
      coöperate with local communities, will take the Masque on
      tour. For particulars address Miss A. M. Houston, Drama
      League of America, 736 Marquette Building, Chicago, Ill.

                    “_Come unto these yellow sands,
                        And then take hands!_”
                             THE TEMPEST.

                          BY THE YELLOW SANDS

                          _A COMMUNITY MASQUE
                      Of the Art of the Theatre_

                Devised and Written to Commemorate the
                     Tercentenary of the Death of

                          _Illustrations by_
                  Joseph Urban & Robert Edmond Jones

                           TO · THE · ONLIE
                      BEGETTER · OF · THE · BEST
                         IN · THESE · INSUING
                        SCENES · MASTER · W · S


      Cover Design: “When the kings of earth
          clasp hands” (Act II, Second Inner
          Scene). By Robert Edmond Jones.

      Preliminary Sketch of Setebos.
          By Joseph Urban                     _Frontispiece_

                                                FACING PAGE
      Ground Plan for Auditorium (with
          Stages of Masque Proper and
          Interludes). By Joseph Urban                  xxx

      Design of Stage for Masque Proper.
          By Joseph Urban                             xxxii

      Preliminary Sketch for Seventh Inner
          Scene. By Robert Edmond Jones                  98

      Preliminary Sketch for Tenth Inner
          Scene. By Robert Edmond Jones                 138

      Inner Structure of Masque (Chart).
          By Percy MacKaye                              154

      A Community Masque Audience
          (Photograph). By E. O. Thalinger              156

      Community Masque Organization Plan
          (Chart). By Hazel MacKaye                     158


                    PREFACE                    xiii
                    MASQUE STRUCTURE           xxix
                    PERSONS AND PRESENCES      xxxi
                    PROLOGUE                      3
                    FIRST INTERLUDE              32
                    ACT I                        34
                    SECOND INTERLUDE             76
                    ACT II                       78
                    THIRD INTERLUDE             110
                    ACT III                     111
                    EPILOGUE                    142
                    APPENDIX                    147


Three hundred years alive on the 23rd of April, 1916, the memory of
Shakespeare calls creatively upon a self-destroying world to do him
honor by honoring that world-constructive art of which he is a master

Over seas, the choral hymns of cannon acclaim his death; in
battle-trenches artists are turned subtly ingenious to inter his art;
War, Lust, and Death are risen in power to restore the primeval reign
of Setebos.

Here in America, where the neighboring waters of his “vexed Bermoothes”
lie more calm than those about his own native isle, here only is given
some practical opportunity for his uninterable spirit to create new
splendid symbols for peace through harmonious international expression.

As one means of serving such expression, and so, if possible, of
paying tribute to that creative spirit in forms of his own art, I have
devised and written this Masque, at the invitation of the Shakespeare
Celebration Committee of New York City.

The dramatic-symbolic motive of the Masque I have taken from
Shakespeare’s own play “The Tempest,” Act I, Scene 2. There, speaking
to Ariel, Prospero says:

                                  “Hast thou forgot
    The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy
    Was grown into a hoop? This damn’d witch Sycorax,
    For mischiefs manifold and sorceries terrible
    To enter human hearing was hither brought with child
    And there was left by the sailors. Thou ...
    Wast then her servant;
    And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate
    To act her earthly and abhorred commands,
    Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee,
    By help of her most potent ministers
    And in her most unmitigable rage,
    Into a cloven pine, within which rift
    Imprisoned thou didst painfully remain ...
    Then was this island—
    Save for the son that she did litter here,
    A freckled whelp hag-born—not honor’d with
    A human shape ... that Caliban
    Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know’st
    What torment I did find thee in, ... it was a torment
    To lay upon the damn’d.... _It was mine art_,
    When I arrived and heard thee, that made gape
    The pine and let thee out.”

“It was mine art”.... There—in Prospero’s words [and
Shakespeare’s]—is the text of this Masque.

The art of Prospero I have conceived as the art of Shakespeare in its
universal scope: that many-visioned art of the theatre which, age after
age, has come to liberate the imprisoned imagination of mankind from
the fetters of brute force and ignorance; that same art which, being
usurped or stifled by groping part-knowledge, prudery, or lust, has
been botched in its ideal aims and—like fire ill-handled or ill-hidden
by a passionate child—has wrought havoc, hypocrisy, and decadence.

Caliban, then, in this Masque, is that passionate child-curious part of
us all [whether as individuals or as races], grovelling close to his
aboriginal origins, yet groping up and staggering—with almost rhythmic
falls and back-slidings—toward that serener plane of pity and love,
reason and disciplined will, where Miranda and Prospero commune with
Ariel and his Spirits.

In deference to the master-originator of these characters and their
names, it is, I think, incumbent on me to point out that these four
characters, derived—but reimagined—from Shakespeare’s “The Tempest,”
become, for the purposes of my Masque, the presiding symbolic _Dramatis
Personæ_ of a plot and conflict which are my own conception. They are
thus no longer Shakespeare’s characters of “The Tempest,” though born
of them and bearing their names.

Their words [save for a very few song-snatches and sentences] and their
actions are those which I have given them; the development of their
characters accords with the theme—not of Shakespeare’s play but of
this Masque, in which Caliban’s nature is developed to become the
protagonist of aspiring humanity, not simply its butt of shame and

My conception and treatment also of Setebos [whose name is but a
passing reference in Shakespeare’s play], the fanged idol [substituted
by me for the “cloven pine”]; of Sycorax, as Setebos’ mate [in form
a super-puppet, an earth-spirit rather than “witch”], from both
of whom Caliban has sprung; of the Shakespearian Inner Scenes, as
brief-flashing visions in the mind of Prospero; of the “Yellow Sands”
as his magic isle, the world; these are not liberties taken with text
or characters of Shakespeare; they are simply the means of dramatic
license whereby my Masque aims to accord its theme with the art and
spirit of Shakespeare.

Shakespeare’s own characters, that use his words[1] in scenes of his
plays, have then no part in my Masque, except in the Inner Scenes,[2]
where they are conceived as being conjured by Prospero and enacted by
the Spirits of Ariel.

The theme of the Masque—Caliban seeking to learn the art of
Prospero—is, of course, the slow education of mankind through the
influences of coöperative art, that is, of the art of the theatre in
its full social scope. This theme of coöperation is expressed earliest
in the Masque through the lyric of Ariel’s Spirits taken from “The
Tempest”; it is sounded, with central stress, in the chorus of peace
when the kings clasp hands on the Field of the Cloth of Gold;[3] and,
with final emphasis, in the gathering together of the creative forces
of dramatic art in the Epilogue. Thus its motto is the one printed on
the title page, in Shakespeare’s words:

    “Come unto these yellow sands
     And then take hands.”

So much for my Masque in its relationship to Shakespeare’s work and his
art. Its contribution to the modern development of a form of dramatic
art unpractised by him requires some brief comment.

This work is not a pageant, in the sense that the festivals excellently
devised by Mr. Louis N. Parker in England, Mr. Lascelles in Canada, or
Mr. Thomas Wood Stevens in America have been called pageants. Though of
necessity it involves aspects of pageantry, its form is more closely
related to the forms of Greek drama and of opera. Yet it is neither of
these. It is a new form to meet new needs.

I have called this work a Masque, because—like other works so named
in the past—it is a dramatic work of symbolism involving, in its
structure, pageantry, poetry, and the dance. Yet I have by no means
sought to relate its structure to an historic form; I have simply
sought by its structure to solve a modern [and a future] problem of the
art of the theatre. That problem is the new one of creating a focussed
dramatic technique for the growing but groping movement vaguely called
“pageantry,” which is itself a vital sign of social evolution—the
half-desire of the people not merely to remain receptive to a popular
art created by specialists, but to take part themselves in creating
it; the desire, that is, of democracy consistently to seek expression
through a drama _of_ and _by_ the people, not merely _for_ the people.

For some ten years that potential drama of democracy has interested
me as a fascinating goal for both dramatist and citizen, in seeking
solution for the vast problem of leisure.[4] Two years ago at Saint
Louis I had my first technical opportunity, on a large scale, to
experiment in devising a dramatic structure for its many-sided
requirements. There, during five performances, witnessed by half a
million people, about seven thousand citizens of Saint Louis took part
in my Masque [in association with the Pageant by Thomas Wood Stevens].
In the appendix of this volume a photograph gives a suggestion of one
of those audiences, gathered in their public park [in seats half of
which were free, half pay-seats] to witness the production.[5]

That production was truly a drama of, for, and by the people—a
true Community Masque; and it was largely with the thought of that
successful civic precedent that the Shakespeare Celebration first
looked to Central Park as the appropriate site to produce their
Community Festival, the present Masque, as the central popular
expression of some hundreds of supplementary Shakespearean celebrations.

In so doing, they conceived the function of a public park—as it is
conceived almost universally west of the Eastern States, and almost
everywhere in Europe—to be that of providing outdoor space for the
people’s expression in civic art-forms.

The sincere opposition of a portion of the community to this use of
Central Park would never, I think, have arisen, if New York could have
taken counsel with Saint Louis’s experience, and its wonderfully happy
civic and social reactions. The opposition, however, was strong and
conscientious; so that, on the same principle of community solidarity
which was the _raison d’etre_ for their informal application to use
Central Park, the Shakespeare Celebration withdrew their wish to use
it. To split community feeling by acrimonious discussion was contrary
to the basic idea and function of the Celebration, which are to help
unite all classes and all beliefs in a great coöperative movement for
civic expression through dramatic art.

One very important public service, however, was performed by this
Central Park discussion; it served clearly to point out a colossal lack
in the democratic equipment of the largest and richest metropolis of
the western hemisphere: namely, the total lack of any public place of
meeting, where representative numbers of New York citizens can unite
in seeing, hearing, and taking part in a festival or civic communion
of their own. New York, a city of five million inhabitants, possesses
no public stadium or community theatre. Little Athens, a mere village
in comparison, had for its heart such a community theatre, which
became the heart of civilization. Without such an instrument, our own
democracy cannot hope to develop that coöperative art which is the
expression of true civilization in all ages.

Happily for the Shakespeare Celebration and its aims, a large measure
of solution has, at the date of this preface, been attained by the
gracious offer of the New York City College authorities, through
President Mezes, to permit the use of the Lewisohn Stadium and athletic
field, temporarily to be converted into a sort of miniature Yale Bowl,
for the production of the Shakespeare Masque on the night of May 23rd
and the following four nights.

By the brilliant conception and technical plans of Mr. Joseph Urban
for joining to the present concrete stadium of Mr. Arnold Brunner
its duplicate in wood, on the east side of the field, and so placing
the stage on its narrower width to the north, there will be created
a practical outdoor theatre, remarkable in acoustics, qualified to
accommodate in excellent seats about twenty thousand spectators, and
some two or three thousand participants in the festival.

If such a consummation shall eventually become permanent there, it
will complete the realization of a practicable dream already rendered
partly complete by Mr. Adolf Lewisohn’s public-spirited donation of
the present concrete structure. Referring to that practicable dream,
I wrote four years ago in my volume “The Civic Theatre”:[6] “One day
last spring, traversing with President John Finley the grounds lately
appropriated, through his fine efforts, by the City of New York for a
great stadium at the City College, I discussed with him the splendid
opportunity there presented for focussing the popular enthusiasm toward
athletic games in an art dramatic and nobly spectacular.”

This new dramatic art-form, then—a technique of the theatre adapted to
democratic expression and dedicated to public service—I have called by
the name Community Masque, and have sought to exemplify it on a large
scale in two instances, at Saint Louis and at New York.

The occasion of this preface is not one to discuss the details of that
new technique further than to suggest to the public, and to those
critics who might be interested to make its implications clearer than
the author and director of a production has time or opportunity to
do, that the exacting time limits of presenting dramatically a theme
involving many dissociated ages, through many hundreds of symbolic
participants and leaders, are conditions which themselves impel the
imagination toward creating a technique as architectural as music, as
colorful as the pageant, as dramatic as the play, as plastic as the

That my own work has attained to such a technique I am very far from
supposing. I have, however, clearly seen the need for attaining to it,
whatever the difficulties, if a great opportunity for democracy is not
to be lost. To see that much, at a time when the vagueness of amateurs,
however idealistic in desire, is obscuring the austere outlines of a
noble technical art looming just beyond us, may perhaps be of some

As visual hints to the structure (Inner and Outer) of the present
Masque, the charts here published may be suggestive to the reader.
To the reader as such it remains to point out one vital matter of
technique, namely, the relation of the dramatic dialogue to the
Masque’s production.

Even more than a play [if more be possible], a Masque is not a realized
work of art until it is adequately produced. To the casual reader, this
Masque, as visualized merely on these printed pages, may appear to be
a structure simply of written words: in reality it is a structure of
potential interrelated pantomime, music, dance, lighting, acting, song
[choral and lyric], scene values, stage management and _spoken_ words.

Words spoken, then, constitute in this work but one of numerous
elements, all relatively important. If no word of the Masque be heard
by the audience, the plot, action, and symbolism will still remain
understandable and, if properly produced, dramatically interesting.
Synchronous with every speech occur, in production, effects of
pantomime, lighting, music, and movement with due proportion and
emphasis. Such, at least, is the nature of the technique sought,
whether or not this particular work attains to it.

A Masque must appeal as emphatically to the eye as a moving picture,
though with a different appeal to the imagination.

Because of this only relative value of the spoken word, there are many
producers [theoretical and practical] who believe that the spoken word
should be eliminated entirely from this special art of the theatre.

Artists as eminent and constructive in ideas as Gordon Craig, and many
whom his genius has inspired, advocate indeed this total elimination of
speech from the theatre’s art as a whole. For them that art ideally is
the compound of only light and music and movement. The reason for this,
I think, is because the sensibility of those artists is preëminently
visual. Moreover, they are relatively inexpert, as artists, in the
knowledge of the technique and values of the spoken word. Being
visually expert and creative, they have, by their practical genius,
established a world-wide school of independent visual art [assisted
only by mass sounds of music].

For them this art has well nigh become _the_ art of the theatre. Yet
it is not so, I think, and can never be so, to that watching and
listening sensibility for which all dramatic art is created—the soul
of the audience. That soul, our soul, is a composite flowering of all
the senses, and the life-long record of the spoken word [reiterated
from childhood] is an integral, yes, the most intimate, element of our

The association of ideas and emotions which only the spoken word can
evoke is, therefore, a dramatic value which the art of the theatre
cannot consistently ignore. It is chiefly because those artist-experts
in word values, the poets, who might contribute their special technique
to the theatre’s art, turn elsewhere creatively, that the field is left
unchallenged and open to the gifted school of the visualists. The true
dramatic art—which involves ideally a total coöperation—does not, and
cannot, exclude the poet-dramatist. Shakespeare and Sophocles lived
before electric light; if they had lived after, they would have set
a different pace for Bakst and Reinhardt, and established a creative
school more nobly poised in technique, more deeply human in appeal.

Now, therefore, when the poets are awaking to a new power and control
of expression, here especially in our own country, if they will both
learn and teach in this larger school, there rises before us the
promise of an art more sensuous, sane, and communal than the theatre
has ever known.

So, in the pioneering adventure of this Masque, which seeks by
experiment to relate the spoken word to its larger coöperation with the
visual arts, I have devised a structure in which the English language,
spoken by actors, is an essential dramatic value.

Why, then, take pains [as I have done] to make it relatively
non-essential in case it should _not_ be heard?

For this reason: that now—at the present temporary and still
groping stage of development of community Masque organization and
production—there can be, in the nature of the case, no complete
assurance beforehand of adequate acoustics in setting, or of voices
trained to large-scale outdoor speech.

But, if this be so, would it not be the wiser part of creative valor to
adapt my structure wholly to these elementary conditions, risk nothing,
and devise simply pantomime?

No, for by that principle no forward step for the spoken word could
ever be taken. _If we are to progress in this new art, we must seek to
make producing conditions conform to the spoken play, even more than
the play to those conditions._

And this can be done; it has been done.

At Saint Louis the vast amphitheatre for my Masque was at first
considered, by nearly all who saw it, to be utterly unsuited to the
spoken word; yet, after careful study, experiment and technical
provision for its use, the speech of actors was heard each night by at
least two-thirds of the hundred and fifty thousand listeners. Of the
seven thousand actors only about fifteen spoke, but these conveyed the
spoken symbolism and drama of the action.

In the present Masque I have focussed the spoken word on the raised
constructed stage of wood [A. and B. in the Chart], confined it to
the speech of eight principal acting parts, and about twenty other
subordinate parts, whose speaking lines [from Shakespeare’s plays] are
still further focussed at the narrower inner stage [A. in the Chart],
provided with special sounding boards.

On the other hand, for the ground-circle of the “Yellow Sands” [C.
in the Chart], where the thousands of participants in the Interludes
take part under an open sky, I have provided no spoken words, but only
pantomime, mass movements, dances and choruses.

To the reader, then, I would repeat, that the words of this printed
Masque are an essential, though not an exclusive, part of its
structure, and are meant primarily to be spoken, not primarily to be

As in the case of my Civic Ritual “The New Citizenship”[7] this Masque
can only have its completely adequate production on a large and
elaborate scale. Like the Civic Ritual, however, which—originally
designed for the New York stadium—is being performed on an adapted
scale in many parts of the country, in schools and elsewhere, this
Masque may perhaps serve some good purpose in being made available
for performance in a smaller, simpler manner, adapted to the purposes
of festivals during this year of Shakespeare’s Tercentenary. At the
invitation, therefore, of Mr. Percival Chubb, President of the Drama
League of America, who first suggested to me the writing of a Memorial
Masque to Shakespeare, the publishers have made arrangements with
officers of the Drama League for making known its availability as
stated in their announcement printed at the back of this volume.

The accompanying stage-designs are the work of Mr. Joseph Urban, the
eminent Viennese artist and producer [who has recently become an
American], and of Mr. Robert Edmond Jones, designer of the scenes and
costumes for Mr. Granville Barker’s production of “The Man Who Married
a Dumb Wife.”

At the date of this preface, Mr. Arthur Farwell has nearly completed
his compositions for the lyric choruses and incidental music of the
Masque. The choruses will shortly be made available, published by G.
Schirmer, New York.

With all three of these artists I am fortunate in being associated in
preparations for the Masque’s New York production next May.

These preparations have met with many complex difficulties of launching
and organization; the time remaining is very brief to accomplish the
many-sided community task for which the Masque is designed; only the
merest beginnings of so vast a movement can be attempted; but, with
coöperation and support from those who believe in that task, the
producers look forward hopefully to serving, in some pioneering degree,
the great cause of community expression through the art of the theatre.

                                                 PERCY MACKAYE.
  New York, February 22, 1916.


                           MASQUE STRUCTURE

                          THE ACTION

The action takes place, symbolically, on three planes: (1) in the cave
of Setebos (before and after its transformation into the theatre of
Prospero); (2) in the mind of Prospero (behind the Cloudy Curtains of
the inner stage); and (3) on the ground-circle of “the Yellow Sands”
(the place of historic time).

                           THE TIME

The Masque Proper is concerned, symbolically, with no literal period of
time, but with the waxing and waning of the life of dramatic art (and
its concomitant, civilization) from primitive barbaric times to the
verge of the living present.

The Interludes are concerned with ritualistic glimpses of the art of
the theatre (in its widest, communal scope) during three historical
periods: (1) Antiquity, (2) the Middle Ages, and (3) Elizabethan

The Epilogue is concerned with the creative forces of dramatic art from
antiquity to the present, and—by suggestion—with the future of those


The setting of the entire Masque is architectural and scenic, not
a background of natural landscape as in the case of most outdoor
pageants. Being constructed technically for performance, on a large
scale, by night only, its basic appeals are to the eye, through expert
illusions of light and darkness, architectural and plastic line, the
dance, color, and pageantry of group movements; to the ear, through
invisible choirs and orchestra, stage instrumental music and voices of
visible mass-choruses [in the Interludes only].

As indicated by the accompanying diagram [Time Chart][8] of its Inner
Structure, the Masque Proper is enacted by a comparatively few [about
thirty] professional actors, who use the spoken word to motivate the
large-scale pantomime of their action; the Interludes [which use no
spoken word, but only dance, pageantry, miming, and choruses] are
performed by community participants [to the number of thousands]; the
Epilogue utilizes both kinds of performers.

Corresponding to this Inner Structure, the Outer Structure consists
of three architectural planes or acting stages [all interdependent]:
a modified form of Elizabethan stage, [here called “the Middle
Stage—B”] consisting of a raised platform [to which steps lead up from
a ground-circle, eight feet below] provided with a smaller, curtained
Inner Stage [A—under a balcony, on which the upper visions appear, and
above which the concealed orchestra and choirs are located]. This Inner
Stage is two feet higher than the Middle Stage, from which ramps lead
up to it. Shutting it off from the other, its “Cloudy Curtains,” when
closed, meet at the centre; when they are open, the inner Shakespearean
scenes [visions in the mind of Prospero] are then revealed within.

Between the raised Middle Stage and the audience lies the
Ground-Circle—in form like the “orchestra” of a Greek theatre. Here
the community Interludes take place around a low central Altar, from
which rises a great hour-glass, flowing with luminous sands. This
ground-circle is the place of the Yellow Sands, the outer wave-lines
of which are bordered by the deep blue of the space beyond. The circle
itself, representing the magic isle of Prospero [the temporal place of
his art], is mottled with shadowy contours of the continents of the

Beneath the middle stage, and between the broad spaces of the steps
which lead up to it from the ground-circle, is situated, at centre,
the mouth of Caliban’s cell, which thus opens directly upon the Yellow

All of these features of the setting, however, are invisible when the
Masque begins, and are only revealed as the lightings of the action
disclose them.






                         PERSONS AND PRESENCES

                     I. _OF THE MASQUE PROPER_[9]

                           SPEAKING PERSONS

  CALIGULA [Impersonated by Lust]
  ONE IN GRAY [Impersonated by Death]
  ANOTHER IN GRAY [Impersonated by Caliban]

                            MUTE PRESENCES


                           CHORAL PRESENCES


                           PANTOMIME GROUPS

  LUST GROUP       }
  DEATH GROUP      }
  WAR GROUP        } Impersonated by the Powers of Setebos
  ROMAN GROUP      }
  GREGORIAN CHOIR      } Impersonated by the Spirits of Ariel

                  _II. OF THE TEN INNER-STAGE SCENES_
                 [_Enacted by the Spirits of Ariel._]

SEE APPENDIX: Pages 159-161.

Of these scenes eight are spoken scenes taken from plays of
Shakespeare; one (the sixth) is a pantomime devised from a descriptive
speech in “Henry the Eighth,” Act I, Scene I; one (the fourth) is a
tableau scene symbolic of the early Christian Church. Those taken from
Shakespeare are printed in black-faced type.

                       _III. OF THE INTERLUDES_

SEE APPENDIX: Pages 162, 166, 172, 184, 187, 190, 195.

                         _IV. OF THE EPILOGUE_

  SHAKESPEARE [as Prospero]
  THEATRES [with Musicians, Dancers, Designers, Producers,
          Inventors, etc.: Creators of the art of the theatre]
  SPIRIT TRUMPETERS [Announcers of the Groups]







_The action begins in semi-darkness, out of which sound invisible

_The scene is the cave of_ SETEBOS, _whose stark-colored idol—half
tiger and half toad—colossal and primitive—rises at centre above a
stone altar_.

_On the right, the cave leads inward to the abode of_ SYCORAX; _on the
left, it leads outward to the sea, a blue-green glimpse of which is
vaguely visible_.

_High in the tiger-jaws of the idol_, ARIEL—_a slim, winged figure,
half nude—is held fettered_.

_In the dimness, he listens to deep-bellowing choirs from below,
answered by a chorus of sweet shrill voices from within._

        _Setebos! Setebos!_


    [_Calls aloud._]
    O, my brave spirits!

    _Setebos! Setebos!
    Over us which art, and under:
        Fang of fire
    From mouth of thunder!
        Hungering goad
        From belly of mire!
        Tiger and toad—
    Blood which art on the jungle bloom,
    Sloth and slumber and seed in the womb:
        Which art wondrous
        Over and under us,
    Setebos! Setebos! Thou art Setebos!_

    _Sealèd in a starless cell,
        We are shut from dawn and sky.

    Setebos knows, but his jaws
    Fetter me fast: he is dumb—
    Answering never.

    _We, who parch for dew and star—
    Must we perish where we are?

    Sycorax knows, but she sits
    There in the cave with her son—
    Mocking us ever.


        Call me no more,
    Lest they torment us. I hear them
    Coming now.

              THE VOICE OF SYCORAX


    [_Gigantic, the twisted form of_ SYCORAX _looms from
          within the rock_.]

    [_Calling toward the sea._]
    Come, fish-fowl! Leave thy flapping in the mud
    And keep thy father’s temple. Call his priests.
    Thy father Toad’s a god, hath double teeth
    In his two heads. The Tiger loins of him
    Begot thee in my belly for a cub
    To lick his paws and purr, else he may pinch thee
    Behind an eye-tooth, like yon flitter mouse
    That hangs there wriggling.

              THE VOICE OF CALIBAN
                 So, so Sycorax!—

       Aye, so so: crawling still!

    [_Malformed and hissing_, CALIBAN _enters on his belly
          and arms_.]

       Sycorax! See!

       What hast thou got thee?

    [_Laughs, half rising, and holds up a wriggling creature._]
    A little god—a little Caliban.
    Ha!—make him out of mud. See: Squeezed it round
    And slipped him through my fist-hole. Am a god:
    See Sycorax—her grandchild!

                 ’Tis an eel-worm.
    Fling him to the white bat yonder.

    [_Her form vanishes in the rock._]

    [_Approaching the idol._]
    Here’s food for thee: a wormling for thy beak.
    So, my trapped bird:—How sayst, ha?

               “_Where the bee sucks there suck I._”

                                     Bee, sayst thou?
    Still buzzest of thy wings, and eatest—air!

               “_In a cowslip’s bell I lie._”

    My father’s gullet is no cowslip’s bell.
    Shalt lie in the belly of Setebos.
    [_Tossing away the eel._]
                               —What waitest for?

    I am waiting for one who will come.

                  Aye? _Who_ will come?

    One from the heart of the world; and he shall rise
    On tempest of music and in thunder of song.

    Thunder and tempest—so!

    [_With ecstasy._]
                     I see him now.

    [_Crouching back._]
    See him! _Where_, now?

                           In my dream:—He bears
    A star-wrought staff and hooded cloak of blue,
    And on his right hand bums the sun, and on
    His left, the moon; and these he makes his masks
    Of joy and sorrow.

           Where? Mine eye seeth naught.

    Before him comes a maid—a child, all wonder—
    And leads, him to this blighted isle.

                  What for, here?

    To set me free, and all my air-born spirits
    Whom Setebos holds prisoned in this earth.

    Free? What’s that—free?

                       What thou canst never be
    Who never shalt dance with us by yellow sands.

                SPIRITS OF ARIEL
    [_Sing within._]
         “_Come unto these yellow sands,
           And then take hands:
         Courtsied when you have and kiss’d
           The wild waves whist.
         Foot it featly here and there_”—

    Ho, blast their noises! Stop thy spirits’ squealing.
    Their piping itcheth me like hornets’ stings.

                SPIRITS OF ARIEL
    [_Sing on, within._]
         “_And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear_”—

    Setebos! Squash ’em!

                POWERS OF SETEBOS
    [_Sing below with strident roarings, drowning the song
          of Ariel’s Spirits._]
    _Setebos_! _Setebos_,! _Thou art Setebos_!

    [_Exulting grotesquely._]
    Who’ll dance by yellow sands?—Who’s free now, spirit?
    Ho, Caliban can squash their music. Free?
    Aren’t I a god, bitch-born, the son of Setebos
    Can howl all hell up? Worship me, thou wings!
    Praise my toad-father in his temple!

                               The priests
    Of Setebos are Lust and Death and War.
    Not Ariel—nor Ariel’s Spirits ever—
    Shall do them honor. One shall come hereafter
    Whom we now worship, waiting.


    Swallow thy croakings, bullfrog. Call the priests,
    And fill this spirit’s nostrils with the reek
    Of Setebos, his blood-rites.

              THE SPIRITS OF ARIEL
    [_Cry out piercingly._]

    Peace, my brave hearts! Be dumb—but still be dreaming!

    Powers of Setebos!—Lust, Death, War,—ho, now!
    Hither, and do my father worship!

    [_Stifling a cry._]

    [_Enter_ LUST, DEATH, _and_ WAR, _arrayed as priests
          of Setebos_.]

    [_To Caliban._]
    Come, toad-boy: watch with me, within.

    [_Going within the cave, as Sycorax disappears._]
                                            Free, saith?
    Will dance by yellow sands?—Now, Spirit, dance!

    [_As Caliban goes within, the powers of Setebos come forth._
       _At the altar beneath Ariel, the three Priests lead
       them in ceremonial rites of primeval pageantry and
       dance—the sacrificial worship of Setebos. Above
       them Ariel suffers, with closed eyes. In their
       rites, Lust pours his libation, and lights the
       altar fire, which—when War has made there his
       living sacrifice—Death extinguishes in darkness._
       _Through the dark, which gradually changes to a glowing
       dusky Ariel speaks aloud._]

    O Spirits, I have dreamed, but Death has closed
    My sight in darkness. Spirits, I have begotten
    Sweet Joy, but Lust hath drowned her in his wine.
    Yea, I have wove Love wings, but War hath robbed them
    And riven his lovely body all alive
    To feed the hungering flames of Setebos.
    My Spirits, I your master am unmastered.
    Speak to me! Comfort me! Is there no joy,
    No love, no dream, that shall survive this dark?
    Hath this our isle no king but Caliban?
    Are there no yellow sands where we shall dance
    To greet the master of a timeless dawn?
    Or must there break no morning?—Ah, you are dumb
    Still to my doubtings. Yet the dark grows pale,
    And, paling, pulses now with rosier shadows;
    And now the shadows tremble, and draw back
    Their trailing glories: hark! All little birds
    Wake in the gloaming: look! What young Aurora
    Walks in the dusk below, and like a child
    Turns her quick face to listen?—Ah!

    [_Below, against the light from the sea, has entered
          the dim Figure he descries._]

                    THE FIGURE
                                Who calls?

    Spirits, ’tis she! O, we have dreamed her true
    At last—Miranda!

                SPIRITS OF ARIEL
    [_Call, in echoing song._]

    [_Searching with her eyes._]
                           Earth and air
    Echo my name. Who calls me?


                SPIRITS OF ARIEL
    [_As before._]

             Light and dark spin webs around me.
    What art thou, voice—and where?

                          Here—and your servant.

    [_Beholding him._]
    O me!—poor Spirit!—What mouth so terrible
    Utters a voice so tender?

    God of this isle, holds me in ’s fangs.

                              But why?

    I will not serve him.

    [_Naïvely, drawing nearer to the huge idol._]
                        Setebos, be kind.
    Release this Spirit.

                      He hath nor ears, nor eyes,
    Nor any sense to know thee by, but only
    These tusks and claws and his toad-belly.

    Thou suffer, so?

                  Not now.

                        And hath he held thee
    Long captive?

             Since old ocean’s slime first spawned
    Under the moon, I have awaited thee
    And him thou bringest here.

                        You mean my father,

            Hail him, Spirits!

                 SPIRITS OF ARIEL

    Yea, many a starry journey we have made
    Searching this isle. At last to-day, at dawn,
    I saw its yellow sands, and heard thy voice
    Calling for pity. Now my father is come
    And shall release thee.

                      Where? Where is he?

    His cloak is round us now: he holds us now
    In his great art, revealing each to each
    Though he be all invisible.

    [_Reëntering, Caliban comes forward, sniffing and
          peering at Miranda._]

                         Hath feet
    And hair: hath bright hair shineth like a fish’s tail;
    Hath mouth, and maketh small, sweet noises.

    [_Crying out._]
    Go back!

    [_Staring, amazed._]
                      What’s here?

                     Ca—Caliban; cometh here
    To smell what ’tis.
    [_He sniffs nearer; then howls strangely._]
                             Spring in the air: Oho!

    Alas, poor creature! Who hath hurt thee?

    Who hurteth God? Am seed of Setebos:
    Am Caliban: the world is all mine isle:
    Kill what I please, and play with what I please;
    So, yonder, play with him: pull out his wings
    And put ’em back to grow.—Where be _thy_ wings,

                   O Ariel, is this sight
    A true thing, and speaks truly?

                           What you hear
    And see—’tis my master.

                      ’Tis so wonderful
    I know not how to be sad.

    [_In puzzled fascination, staring at Miranda._]

                              The moon hath a face
    And smileth on the lily pools, but hath
    No lily body withal: thy body is
    All lilies and the smell of lily buds,
    And thy round face a pool of moonbeams!

    [_With smile and laughter._]
    Then look not in, lest thou eclipse the moon.

    Syc—Sycorax hath no such laughing: soundeth
    Like little leaves i’ the rain! Hath no such mouth
    Bright-lipp’d with berries ripe to suck i’ the sun—

           Who is Sycorax?

                        Ah, pain!

    Ho, she that hath calved Caliban to the bull
    Setebos, my blood-sire. [_Pauses at a glowing thought,
    then cries with sudden exultance_:] So shall us twain
    Caliban all this world!

    [_He crouches, then rolls over at her feet._]

                            —Laugh, Spring-i’-the-air!
    Lift so thy lily-pad foot and rub his ear
    Where the fur tickleth, and let thy Caliban
    Tongue-lick its palm.

    [_He lies, dog-like, on his back, and laughs loud._]

                     This wonder grows too wild.

    Go, go! O flee away!

    [_Leaping up._]
                         Away?—Aye, so!

    [_He approaches Miranda, who recoils, half fearful._]

    Wist where salt water lappeth warm i’ the noon
    And shore-fish breed i’ the shoals.—Wist where the sea-bull
    Flap-flappeth his fin and walloweth there his cow
    And snoreth the rainbow from his nostrils.

    [_He begins to dance grotesquely about her._]

    Spring-i’-the-air! shalt leap, shalt roll in the sun,
    Shalt dance with lily-warm limbs, shalt race wi’ the gulls!
    Shalt laugh, and call—Come, Come!

                Come, come, Caliban!
                Catcheth who catcheth can!
                Mateth mew, mateth man:
                Catch, come, Caliban!

    O Setebos, let me go free!

    [_To Caliban._]
                        Peace! Dance no more.
    Go hence, and leave me.

                     Hence? Aye, both—us twain.

    [_With simple command._]
    Nay, thou alone.

    [_With narrowing eyes, draws nearer._]
                     Saith _what_?

                        Go from me.

    [_Stops, with a hissing growl._]
    Syc-Sycorax! Sycorax!

                        Mole in the mire, wilt squeak
    When thou art trod on?—Bite! Bite, Setebos’ son!
    Let the brave wonder breed of thee.

                            Aye, mother.
    [_With rising passion—to Miranda._]

    A child! Shalt bear me such as thou, with head
    Of Caliban: no eel-worm, nay—a wonder,
    With lily feet, that walk. Ho, Setebos!

    Setebos! Mate them at thine altar.

    [_Fleeing from Caliban, pauses in terror of Sycorax._]
                                       Save me!

                POWERS OF SETEBOS
    [_Sing within._]
                 _Setebos! Setebos!_

    [_Rushing toward Miranda._]

          Save me, father!

    [_Calling shrilly._]

                 SPIRITS OF ARIEL
    [_Sing within._]
                                     _Prospero! Hail!_

    [_A clap of thunder strikes, rolling, in sudden darkness.
         Lightnings burst from the idol of Setebos.
         From the flashing gloom, choruses of contending
         spirits commingle the roar of their deep bass and
          high-pitched choirs._]

                 SPIRITS OF ARIEL
    _Prospero! Prospero!_
      _Out of our earth-pain_
          _Raise and array us_
            _In splendor of order!_
          _Pour on our chaos—_
    _Prospero! Prospero!—_
      _Peace to our earth-pain!_


    _Setebos! Setebos!_
      _Lord of our earth-bane,_
          _Loose on his wrath way_
            _The beast of thy jungle!_
          _Pour on our pathway—_
    _Setebos! Setebos!_
      _Blood for thine earth-bane!_

    [_Amid the tempestuous song, darkness, and thunder,
          appears on the left a glowing, winged throne. On
          the throne sits_ PROSPERO—_in one hand, a scroll;
          in the other, a miraculous staff_.]

    [_Raising his staff._]
    Darkness, be light!—Tempest, be calm!—Miranda!
    [_The scene grows light, and is still._]

    [_At the steps of the throne._]

         Come to me, child.
    [_As she mounts to him gladly._]
                               Sit here beside me.
    [_She sits at his feet, nestling in the folds of his great
    My cloak and staff protect thee.

    [_Raising her eyes in dread._]
                           But the wild thing?

    Must be transformed.—Caliban!

    [_Crouching at the centre, howls terribly._]
    Sycorax—mother! Hast swallowed them. Lord Thunder,
    Strike us no more!

                   I strike no more till time
    Hath need of thunder. Rise now and be tamed,
    Howler at Heaven.

    [_Rising, bewildered._]
                      Tamed, saith? What shall it be—
    That “tamed?”

                 That shalt thou learn of Ariel.

    [_He looks toward Ariel, still held in the mouth of Setebos.
          Sycorax lies heaped and still by the altar._]


                     Sycorax, lo, ’tis dead.

    [_With wailing cry._]

    The will of Setebos is matched with mine
    To rule our world. Time shall award the prize—
    Mine own Miranda—to his power or mine.
    His might is awful, but mine art is deep
    To foil his power and exalt mine own.
    Ariel, thy spirits shall help me.

                            Master, how?

    Thou, long time artless, now shalt learn mine art
    To win my goal—Miranda’s freedom. Never
    Till this immortal Caliban shall rise
    To lordly reason, can Miranda hold
    Her maiden gladness undismayed. For that
    I will release thee from those fangs
    Of Setebos.

               For that, dear master, I have waited
    Long ages, dreaming.

                     So, wilt give thy promise
    To learn of me, and teach this monster here?

    O set me free to be thy servant ever.
    Master, I promise!

                      Fly! Run free!—Unfang him,

    [_Prospero raises his staff._

    _Slowly the tiger-jaws of the Idol open their fangs.
    Ariel, with a joyous cry, slips into the air, and—as
    he floats fluttering to the earth—his unseen
    choir of Spirits sing with shrilly gladness:_]

                 SPIRITS OF ARIEL
          _Prospero! Prospero! Hail!_

    [_Dancing on the earth._]
                                Free! Free!

    O, now his fettered Spirits: Free them too!

    Well urged, my own Miranda.—Setebos,
    Disgorge these long-embowelled choirs!—Spirits,
    Come forth!

    [_Again Prospero raises his staff._

    _Yawning enormous, the toad-mouth of the Idol, fitted
    with green and blue light, widens to a lurid aperture
    out of which come forth—dancing—the star-bright
    Spirits of Ariel._

    _As they come, Ariel—springing toward Caliban—cries

    Now, Caliban, we dance by yellow sands!

    [_Singing as they rush forth, the Spirits dart with Ariel
    swiftly about the grovelling Caliban and chase him,
    dodging and whining, down the steps to the ground-circle,
    mottled with its shadowy continents of the
    world, and rimmed with its long, yellow wave-lines._]

                 SPIRITS OF ARIEL
    “_Come unto these yellow sands,
       And then take hands:
     Courtsied when you have and kiss’d
       The wild waves whist.
     Foot it featly here and there
     And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear:
       Hark, hark!
     The watch-dogs bark:
     Hark, hark! I hear
     The strain of strutting chanticleer
             Cry: cock-o-diddle-dow!_”

    [_Encircling Caliban in their dance, and pelting him with
          bright handfuls of the yellow sands, they tease and
    drive him howling into his cave cell, where his dark,
    monstrous shape silhouettes for a moment on the
    orange-red glow, then vanishes within._

    _As he disappears, to their last “Bow-wow!”
    and “Cock-a-diddle-dow!”, they hasten back above
    to Ariel, who leads them before Prospero._]

    The beast is routed, Master. Was’t well done?

    The routed beast—returns. I charge thee, Spirit,
    Not to torment, but teach him—for which task
    Thou wilt require mine art. So by its power
    We will transform this cave of Setebos
    To be a temple to Miranda. Now
    Let these thy Spirits lead her to her shrine
    Yonder, where all her maiden Muses wait
    To make her welcome.

    [_Prospero points to where, on the right, appears Miranda’s
         shrine. From its portals come forth the Nine Muses, bearing
         lutes and pipes. Prospero, turning to Miranda, rises and
         gives her into Ariel’s care._]

                         Child, go with them now
    And tarry till I summon.

                       Sir, I will.
    I thank you and these Spirits, and may we all
    Be saved from Setebos.

                      Sweet Mistress, follow!

    [_To a melodious tiding and piping played by the Muses,
          Ariel and his Spirits escort Miranda to the centre,
          where the Muses meet and conduct her into the shrine,
          while Ariel’s Spirits—at a gesture from him—dart
          through the centre of the Cloudy Curtains and disappear._]

    Now hither, bird, and perch!

    [_Running to him, on the throne._]
                             Beside you, Master!

    [_Pointing to the ground-circle._]

    Seest yonder Yellow Sands? There sleep the shores,
    The cloudy capes and continents of time;
    There wane and wax eternal tides, that mark
    The ebb and flow of empires with their foam.
    There shalt thou see the million-colored skein
    Whereof I weave mine art. Look well and learn!
    For this my art is of no only land
    Or age, but born of all—itself a world
    Snatched from the womb of History, to survive
    Its mortal mother in imagination.—
    Dost thou attend me?

                      Word and will, dear Master!

    [_At the mouth of Caliban’s cell are now visible Lust,
         Death, and War, who in pantomime indicate to Caliban
         their conspiracy against Prospero and Ariel._]

    ’Tis well, for thou must prove my pupil. Look!
    Even now the priests of Setebos conspire
    With Caliban against us. They will compass
    My fall, Miranda’s ruin, and thy bondage
    Unless mine art can foil them. Therefore, now
    Thou shalt behold the pageant of mine art
    Pace from antiquity. First, while yon glass
    Lets flow its yellow sands, behold appear
    My rites of ancient Egypt, Greece, and Rome,
    And, while they pass, I will instruct thee how
    To use them.—Pageant, appear!

    [_A deep gong sounds._]
                              Lo, Egypt comes!


_Now in succession through the great gates of the ground-circle, in
colorful incursions of costume and musky appear three main pageant
groups, that perform—with distinctive artistry of dance, pantomime,
mass movement, and choral song—three ritual episodes of the dramatic
art of antiquity. The nature of each, by a few brief sentences,
Prospero expounds to Ariel, and so to the audience. Concluding, each
group of the first two departs from the circle._

_The first Action—a symbolic ritual of Egypt—enters in seven separate
processions, which converge at the centre in worship of the golden god

_The second group—expressing the noble zenith of Greek dramatic
art—chants, with aspiring, athletic dance, the second chorus of the
Antigone of Sophocles, celebrating the splendor of man. This Action is
performed by the altar._

_With the third enters a contrasted decadence of the theatre’s art with
the Roman Mimes, who enact a farcical Comedy in Masks, in presence of
the emperor Caligula and the Roman populace. Concluding, this Roman
group does not depart, but retiring into partial shadow on the right,
awaits there its later summons._


    [_As the Roman Interlude closes, the light passes from the
         ground-circle to the middle stage, where Prospero—descending
         his throne with Ariel—moves toward the centre. While they
         speak together there, Caliban—coming from his cave—crawls
         part way up the steps and lies flat, occasionally lifting
         his head to listen._]

    So, Ariel, I have harvested for thee
    These orchards of mine art, and let thee taste
    Their varied fruitages, some that have ripened
    In climes auspicious, some that are part decayed.
    Now from three vineyards—Egypt, Greece, and Rome—
    I will distill a varicolored wine
    For Caliban to drink. So, steeped in spirit,
    Haply he also shall see visions. Hast
    Thou learned by heart all that I whispered to thee?

         All, Master.

             Tell me part.

                        You will create
    Out of this world of art three scenes of vision.

    And who shall act them—say!

                           My Spirits shall;
    And I will be their Prologue.

                        For what purpose?

    To tutor this beast.

                      And why?

                              That he may grow
    To reverence Miranda, and forswear Setebos.

             So! and to dispel the Powers
    Of Setebos, I have transformed his cave
    To be her temple and my theatre.—Look!

    [_Prospero raises his staff toward the darkness that conceals
         the background. As he does so, increasing light reveals the
         rude, irregular contours of the cave of Setebos transformed
         to the architectural lines of a splendid proscenium, in the
         oblong of which the Cloudy Curtains shut off the inner stage.
         The idol of Setebos has vanished._

    _While this transformation is taking place, the Spirit Choirs
         of Ariel appear above the proscenium, singing._]

                 SPIRITS OF ARIEL
        _In the same abode and cell_
        _Where the Toad was wont to dwell,_
        _And the Tiger stretched his claw,_
        _We have built a shrine of Law:_
        _We have chosen the lair of hate_
        _To love, imagine and create._

        _Out of blood and dross,_
        _Out of Setebos,_
        _We are risen to show_
        _The art of Prospero:_
        _Here within his head and heart_
        _Our souls are servants of his art._

        [_Their appearances vanish above._]

    Most noble Master! Show me now behind
    Those cloudy curtains: How have you transformed
    The cave within?

                  Come; I will show thee how.

    [_Prospero and Ariel pass through the curtains at the
         centre and disappear within._

    _Meanwhile Caliban, peering above the top step, stares
         in dumb awe at the changed scene. There he is hailed
         from below by the priest of Setebos, Lust, who comes
         forth from his cell and calls_:]

    Caliban! Remember Setebos!

    [_Starting, backs down the steps in scared pantomime._]

    Aye, Setebos! But I hear their watch-dogs bark:
    _Bow-wow!_ I feel their tongue-bites yet—their torments.

    Caliban! Restore thy father’s temple.

    Yea, but my father had no feet to dance.
    Curse on their yellow sands! They sting my eyes
    Still wi’ their blindings. Blast ’em!

    [_He springs part way up the steps again._]

    Restore the priests of Setebos!

                                 His priests!
    Nay, what if the cock sang—their chanticleer
    His _Diddle-diddle-dow_! Burneth my spine
    Still with that crowing.

    [_Reënter Prospero through the curtains._]

                      Hush! he comes again.
    I await thy call. Cry on _Caligula_
    And I will come.

    [_Lust goes in the cell._]

    [_Calling within the curtains._]
                     Now, Ariel, where art thou?

    [_Stepping forth from behind the curtains, dressed in
    the garb of Prologue, bows low._]

           Here, great Master! I am now
    Prologus, at your service.

                         Nay, not mine
    But _his_. [_Calling._]
               Come, Caliban: behold thy tutor.
    Behind these curtains he will show thee now
    More than thy nature dreams on. If thou obey him
    And learn mine art, thou shalt go free like him.
    If not, thou shalt be spitted on a tooth
    More sharp than Setebos. What sayest?

    Art Cock o’ the world, and Caliban thy worm;
    Yea, only beggeth thee crow no more, nor set
    Thy dancing dogs to bark at him.

                             Tush, fool:
    Wilt thou obey?

                  Obeyeth both of you.

    That’s well. Sit here and watch. Now, Ariel,
    Thy prologue: then reveal what lies behind.

    [_Prospero mounts his throne, on the steps of which Caliban
         squats below him, watching and listening with growing
         curiosity. At the centre, before the Cloudy Curtains,
         Ariel speaks._]

    From Egypt, by our Master’s art,
    Behold now, when these curtains part,
    A scene of fleeting pageantry:
    Behold where pale Mark Antony
    Hath fled his sore defeated ships
    In quest of Cleopatra’s lips,
    And turned the tides of war amiss
    To pawn a kingdom for a kiss.—
    So, by my Spirits’ acting, see
    Of what strange stuff these humans be!

    [_Ariel retires within through the curtains, which then—to
         the melodic dirge of flutes within—draw apart, disclosing
         the inner stage, which depicts a scene of vivid Egyptian


Against a background of deep blue sky, the barge[14] of Cleopatra lies
moored at an ancient wharf:

From the left, along the wharf, enters Mark Antony, attended by
Soldiers and Populace in Roman and Egyptian garb.

    Hark! the land bids me tread no more upon ’t;
    It is ashamed to bear me! Friends, come hither.
    I am so hated in the world, that I
    Have lost my way forever. I have a ship
    Laden with gold; take that, divide it; fly,
    And make your peace with Cæsar.

                               Fly! Not we.

    I have fled myself; and have instructed cowards
    To run and show their shoulders. Friends, be gone;
    I have myself resolv’d upon a course
    Which has no need of you; be gone....
    Nay, do so; for, indeed, I have lost command....

       [His followers depart, and Antony throws himself
    down on a buttress of the wharf.
       Meantime from the barge, Cleopatra—who has
    looked on and listened—is led down to the landing
    by Charmian and her Attendants, behind whom Eros
    [a friend of Antony] follows.
       They approach Antony, who—absorbed in his
    grief—does not see them.]

    Nay, gentle madam, to him, comfort him....

    Do! Why, what else?

                     Let me sit down. O Juno!

       [As Cleopatra sinks down near him, Antony—now
    beholding her—starts up with a cry of surprise and
    passionate pain.]

    No, no, no; no, no!

       [Pointing to Cleopatra’s piteous aspect.]
    See you here, sir?

          [Hiding his face.]
    O fie, fie, fie!

           [Bending over her.]

         [Appealing to Antony.]
    Sir, sir,—

    Yes, my lord, yes; he at Philippi kept
    His sword e’en like a dancer, while I struck
    The lean and wrinkled Cassius; and ’twas I
    That the mad Brutus ended ... yet now—No matter.

            [He sinks down again.]

            [Rising, to her Attendants.]
    Ah, stand by ... sustain me! O!

    Most noble sir, arise; the queen approaches.
    Her head’s declin’d, and death will seize her, but
    Your comfort makes the rescue.

         [Drawing still away, despairfully.]
    I have offended reputation,
    A most unnoble swerving.

                       Sir, the queen!

    [Cleopatra and Antony face each other—gazing
         into each other’s eyes.]

            [Suddenly crying out.]

    O, whither hast thou led me, Egypt? See,
    How I convey my shame out of thine eyes
    By looking back what I have left behind
    ’Stroy’d in dishonor.

                    O my lord, my lord,
    Forgive my fearful sails! I little thought
    You would have follow’d.

                      Egypt, thou knew’st too well
    My heart was to thy rudder tied by the strings,
    And thou shouldst tow me after. O’er my spirit
    Thy full supremacy thou knew’st, and that
    Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods
    Command me.

                O my pardon!

                         Now I must
    To the young man send humble treaties, dodge
    And palter in the shifts of lowness; who
    With half the bulk o’ the world play’d as I pleased,
    Making and marring fortunes. You did know
    How much you were my conqueror; and that
    My sword, made weak by my affection, would
    Obey it on all cause.

          [Touching his arm, clings to him.]
                              Pardon, pardon!

            [Overcome at her touch.]

    Fall not a tear, I say; one of them rates
    All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss.
    Even this repays me.... Wine!
    Bring wine, within there: wine! For fortune knows
    We scorn her most when most she offers blows.

       [He embraces Cleopatra.

       From the right slaves enter, bearing chalices and
    wine-beakers. With them come flutists and harpers,
    making festal music.

       Snatching from them a golden cup, Antony raises
    it aloft with an impassioned gesture, returning the
    triumphant smile of the Egyptian queen.]


    [_Meantime Caliban, who has risen absorbed and drawn slowly
          nearer in child-like fascination, stands for an instant,
          bewildered. Then, with a cry, he leaps forward in the dim-lit
          space and gropes along the curtains with arms wide._]

    Ho, light! All’s smother: ’tis gone! Yo—yo, all gone—
    Cloud-swallowed, all! Ah, woman, snake-bright queen,
    Thou wonder-thing, come back! Ah, where—where—where?

    So, so! Canst thou, then, taste my vision, slave?
    [_He descends the throne toward Caliban._]

    [_Staring about him._]

    O dazzle-blue, gold-shine, hot lotus smell!
    Blood-root in bloom, and scarlet water-weed!—
    O silver sight and tinkle-tickling sound!—
    Spurteth my body with joy—burst in my brain
    Enormous moons of wonder!—Float, still float,
    You purpling sails! Blaze, thou flame-woman! Speak
    Sparkles of kissing fire!

    [_Approaching him._]
                       Nay, art thou touched
    Beyond thy tiger cravings?

                        Ho, Lord Master,
    Lord Chanticleer, unswallow from thy gorge
    The world thou hast devoured!

    [_Pointing toward Ariel, who comes forth again as
         Prologus through the curtains._]

                                  Ask of thy tutor;
    He hath revealed that world to thy brute ken.—
    Ariel, this lump of earth hath dreams within ’t,
    That now begin to sprout. Send it more sun
    And watering.

             Sir, your art is rain and sun:
    I am but air, to carry its wet or warmth
    Whereso you list.

                  So let it fall on him
    Till he shall wax to a more worthy plant
    For Miranda’s temple-garden.—Here is my Staff:
    This wields my power. Here keep it in thy charge
    Till I return. So, use it as a rod
    To instruct this bungling cub of Setebos.

    [_As Prospero goes._]
    I will, sir.—Go you far?

                      No farther than
    The frontiers of mine art. Farewell a while!

    [_Prospero passes within through the curtains. Half
         confiding, half suspicious, Caliban comes near to
         Ariel and questions him._]

    Art, saith! What’s that—his art?

                              ’Tis that which burns
    Now in thy blood: the same which conjured hither
    Bright Egypt and the kiss of Antony.

    The woman and the kiss! Nay, saidest now
    ’Tis rain and sun!

                     ’Tis so.

                     Where falleth his rain?
    Where shineth his sun?

                      Yonder on the Yellow Sands.

    Nay, show me this art! Is ’t hidden in thy hand?
    Here, let _me_ hold the staff.

    [_Caliban reaches for the staff; Ariel raises it warningly._]

                         Stay! Touch it not
    Lest it shall scorch thy fingers and set fire
    To the building world. The staff of Prospero
    Is for his servants, not for slaves, to wield.

    [_Drawing back from it, in fear._]
    Scorcheth my fingers, ah?—So wield it, thou!
    Show me once more the snake-bright queen.

                                      Nay, Egypt
    No more! But come with me to Prosper’s throne
    Where _I_ play master now. Here thou shalt sit
    And watch the battlements of eternal Troy
    Where Troilus woos inconstant Cressida.

    Showest me once more—woman?

                               Even so;
    For many kinds of woman make mankind.

    [_Rising, Ariel points toward the inner stage
             and speaks chantingly._]
        Now, from out Time’s storied sphere,
        Homer’s Troy I summon here,
        On a dawn when Hector seeks
        Battle with the besieging Greeks:
        There, while heroes throng the gates,
        Cressida her lover ’waits,
        Casting from a height apart
        Tangling hooks for Troilus’ heart.—
        Behold her now, by Prosper’s art!
    [_Ariel raises his staff._]


The Cloudy Curtains draw back, revealing the battlements of Troy.
Above, on a rampart, in the first rays of morning, CRESSIDA appears,
with a maiden Attendant.

Below, murmuring crowds are looking toward the outer gates. Among them
pass the aged Trojan Queen, and the Greek Helen, in her younger beauty.

         [Peering below.]
    Who were those went by?

                       Queen Hecuba and Helen.

    And whither go they?

                    Up to the eastern tower
    To see the battle—Hector,
    Before the sun uprose, was harnessed light
    And to the field goes he.

    [Enter behind them Pandarus.]

    Hector’s a gallant man.—
                [Turning to greet him.]
    Good morrow, Uncle Pandarus.

    Good morrow, Cousin Cressid.
                  [Trumpets are sounded, off left.]
    Hark! They are coming from the field. Shall we
    stand up here and see them as they pass toward

    At your pleasure.

    [They move to a better vantage. At a gesture
           from Cressida the Attendant departs.]

    Here, here’s an excellent place. I’ll tell you them
    all by their names, as they pass by; but mark
    Troilus above the rest.

             [With a reproving laugh.]
    Speak not so loud.

    [Below, from the left, Trojan warriors, in battle
          gear, begin to pass by, through the admiring
          populace who cheer them occasionally.

          Among them
                    ÆNEAS PASSES]

    That’s Æneas: is not that a brave man? He’s one
    of the flowers of Troy, I can tell you. But mark
    Troilus; you shall see anon.

                   ANTENOR PASSES

    Who’s that?

    That’s Antenor: he’s one o’ the soundest judgments
    in Troy. But when comes Troilus? I’ll show
    you Troilus anon. If he sees me, you shall see
    him nod at me.

    Will he give _you_ the nod?

    You shall see.

    If he do, the rich shall have more.

                   HECTOR PASSES

    That’s Hector: that, that, look you, that; there’s a fellow!
    Go thy way, Hector! There’s a brave man, niece.

    O, a brave man!

    Swords! anything, he cares not; an the devil comes to
    him, it’s all one. Yonder comes Paris—Paris!

                    PARIS PASSES

    Who said he came hurt home to-day? He’s not hurt.
    Why, this will do Helen’s heart good now, ha! Would
    I could see Troilus now! You shall see Troilus anon.

                    HELENUS PASSES

    Who’s that?

    [Searching with his eyes, grows impatiently expectant.]

    That’s Helenus.—I marvel where Troilus is.—That’s
    Helenus—I think he went not forth to-day.—That’s

    Can Helenus fight, uncle?

    Helenus? no. Yes, he’ll fight indifferent well.—I
    marvel where Troilus is. Hark! do you hear the
    people cry “Troilus?”

                  TROILUS PASSES
       [As he approaches, the populace cheer him.

       His eyes, however, search about till they rest on
    the battlement, where Cressida, returning his look,
    starts back, trembling.

       Noting both their actions, Pandarus continues
    flauntingly to point out the young hero.]

    ’Tis Troilus! There’s a man, niece. Hem! Brave Troilus!

    Peace! For shame, peace!

    Mark him: note him. O brave Troilus! Look well
    upon him, niece; look you how his sword is bloodied,
    and his helm more hacked than Hector’s.
    O admirable youth! Go thy way, Troilus, go thy
    way! Had I a sister were a grace, or a daughter a
    goddess, he should take his choice. O admirable
    man! Paris? Paris is dirt to him.

       [While he is speaking, Cressida has taken from her
    hair a flower, knotted its stem to an arrow, and
    dropped the arrow beneath the rampart, where Troilus
    lifts it with a smile and happy gesture, bearing it away
    with him, right. As Pandarus now turns to her,
    Cressida looks away left and points to others below.]

    Here comes more.

                  MORE FORCES PASS

    Asses, fools, dolts! Chaff and bran! Porridge after
       meat! I could live and die i’ the eyes of Troilus.
       Ne’er look, ne’er look! the eagles are gone; crows
       and daws, crows and daws! I had rather be such
       a man as Troilus than Agamemnon and all Greece.

    [Enter, above, Troilus’ Boy, who speaks to Pandarus.]

                     THE BOY
    Sir, my lord Troilus would instantly speak with you.


                     THE BOY
    At your own house; there he unarms him.

    Good boy, tell him I come. [Exit Boy.]
    Fare ye well, good niece.
                               [He goes off, above.]

    Adieu, uncle!

       [Below, the last of the soldiers and populace have
    passed off, right, where Cressida gazes after them,
    speaking aloud to herself:]

    O more in Troilus thousandfold I see
    Than in the glass of Pandar’s praise may be;
    Yet hold I off. Women are angels, wooing.
    Things won are done; joy’s soul lies in the doing.

       [Below, from the right, Troilus hastens back, alone.
    The arrow with the flower he has thrust through the
    links in his chain armor on his left side. Pointing
    to it, he calls up toward the battlement.]


    [With a glad cry.]

      [Unwinding her long wine-red scarf, she ties it to
    the battlement, whence it flutters down to Troilus.
    Seizing it, he mounts by its aid toward the rampart,
    where the face of Cressida peers luringly above him.]

    [Calling upward as he mounts.]
    [Just as he is about to reach Cressida,


    [_At the centre Caliban now leaps up in loud, excited
          laughter. Clapping his hands in the air, he
          strides toward Ariel on the throne._]

    Aha! Troy, Troy! Lips of Troyland and Egypt!
    Lovers in links of gold! Ho, wine of woman
    Bubbling in vats of war!—drinketh you all
    Caliban, Caliban, son of Setebos.—Ariel,
    Learnest me Art? Lo, now: _I_ am his Artist!
    Tell him, Lord Prospero, Caliban createth
    Glories more ’stounding still. Art? Ho, ’tis God’s play!
    But _me_? Am God i’ the mire: can make me Troy
    And purple Egypt out of the mud i’ my palm;
    Giveth me only that—his little play stick
              [_Pointing to the staff in Ariel’s hand._]
    To stir in the mud withal.

                      Not yet!—This staff
    Is wrought to stir the spirits of the air,
    Not dabble i’ the slime.

                  Why so? From bog-slime bloometh
    The lotus, and the sea-lark feedeth her young
    Along the salt flats.—
          [_With childish wheedling._]
                                 Prithee—the staff?

        [_Descending the throne._]
                                      ’Twould burn thee.
    Touch not till thou art free. Yet patience, monster,
    For thou hast learned to answer well, and growest
    Rarely in thought and speech.

    [_Tickled to laughter._]
                                 Yea, clever monster
    Soon groweth monstrous clever. More art, fine Ariel!
    Let Caliban speak thy Prologue.


    [_From her shrine Miranda comes forth, with the Muses.
          Seeing the two, she pauses astonished._]

    Nay!—Is this Ariel?

                      ’Tis I—Prologus.
    Will you hear me, Mistress?

    [_As Caliban approaches._]
                                Thou!—thou, Caliban!

       My pupil.

    [_With confiding assurance._]
              Liketh well thy father’s art,

                  God speed thy learning, monster!
    I am more fain to help thee in that task
    Than all else in the world.

    [_Astonished and eager._]
                            Wouldst help me—thou?

    How happy, if I could!

                      Yea, canst thou!—Hark:
    [_Glancing from his garb to Ariel’s._]

    Let me wear glory, too! What booteth me
    To be his Artist, if I wear no cloth
    To show my glory? He there talketh no Prologue
    Without his toga. Tog me, too, in brave

            Well thought on.
    [_To one of the Muses._]
                             Quick, Euterpe: Fetch
    Bright vesture forth.

                    For Caliban?

                              For whom
    So fit? The need of beauty lies
    Most near to them who lack it.

    [_Euterpe returns, bringing bright garments, which she and
          the other Maidens help now to put upon Caliban._]

                              So, dear Muses:
         Lay on!

    [_Delightedly tries to survey himself._]

            Ha, Sycorax, an thou wert here now
    To look on this thy son!

    [_He parades, with swelling pleasure, before the Muses._]

                             Gaze well, good Spirits!
    Now, Ariel, thy pupil soon shall teach thee
    What thing this Art is: yea, teach Prospero
    A lesson in ’s own lore.

    [_To Ariel, who is about to protest._]

                           Pray, let him tarry
    This time with us. He is too full of dreams
    To act us harm. Speak on thy Prologue.

    [_Still parading._]
    Aye, good: _my_ Prologue shall come after.

    Keep here, this staff for your protection.

    [_Accepting the staff from Ariel, Miranda takes seat on
         the shrine, where the Muses range themselves about her._]

    Be near us, Caliban.

    [_Moving to the shrine steps, speaks to Ariel._]

                         What showest now?


    [_At centre, before the curtains._]
        Now, in Time’s emblazoned tome
        Egypt, Greece, turn page for Rome.

    [_Mutters aloud._]
    Rome, ha! I’ll show you Rome!

        Rocked by mighty Cæsar’s fall
        Glooms the world in battle pall,
        Where by midnight, worn and spent,
        Weary Brutus, in his tent,
        Watches ’mid the Roman host.
        There the pallid Cæsar’s ghost
        Rises from his candle-flame
        Accusing.—Who shall bear that blame?
        Can Brutus wake a world from shame?

    [_Ariel disappears through the curtains.
            Miranda raises the staff._]


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:

    Bear with me, good boy:
    Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile
    And touch thy instrument a strain or two?

    Aye, my lord, an’t please you.

                              It does, my boy:
    I should not urge thy duty past thy might;
    I know young bloods look for a time of rest.

    I have slept, my lord, already.

    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.

         [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.

                [Lucius falls asleep.]

    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.

                      Why comest thou?

                    THE GHOST
    To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi.

    Well; then I shall see thee again?

                    THE GHOST
                           Aye, at Philippi.

    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!


    [_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_:]

    Awake, Romans, awake!

    [_Low thunders growl, and sharp flashes glimmer about him._]

    [_Cries out, appalled._]
                          The staff! His staff!
    Touch not its power, lest thou lay waste the world!


    [_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._]

    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

                 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 SHEPHERD

                   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!

              [_To the Shepherd._]
    Hail, Prospero!

    [_Putting of his sheepskin cloak, which the boy
          takes from him._]
                              Return to Setebos.
    [_To the Shepherd Boy._]
    Ariel, lead him below.

                      So, Master!
    [_Ariel leads Lust away to the cell beneath._]

    [_Rising, goes to Prospero’s arms._]

    [_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

    No more! Will never touch it more!

    [_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?

                      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.

                    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.

    [_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.

    Nay, star-dust!

                    Master, from those far frontiers
    You visited, have you not brought us back
    More pageants of your art?

                          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.


_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

_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

_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._


      [_Now, when the Italian Interlude is concluded, the
          light—passing to the middle stage—illumines at
          centre the lone figure of Caliban, where he squats
          above his cell. Gazing out over the ground-circle, he
          calls aloud his yearning thoughts_:]

    O Sands—Yellow Sands! Falleth on _you_ his rain,
    Shineth his sun! Yea, there his breeding dews
    Quicken your blind rock-seeds, till wondrous live things
    Burst ’em with flame-bright petals; and where his light falls
    You blossom with stars and flowers: But me—me saith,
    Am mud! Calleth _me_ a bubble of black ooze
    Can breed but only mine own belly-kind—
    Bog-fish and moles.—Lieth!
                 [_Rising with a great gesture._]
                             He lieth! ’Tis lies!
    Sands!—You wild, yellow sands! I, too, I, too,
    Am born to dance by your eternal waves
    And build brave temples there. I, too, shall bring you
    Shoutings of life-song, like those Spirits.—Lo,
    I come to you—I come now!

    [_Running down the steps, he rushes out upon the ground-circle,
          where he stoops on bent knees and kisses the shining

    _Behind him, at the entrance of the cell, Death appears,
          holding a great gray cloak._

    _He comes forward, speaking in a thin monotone._]


    [_Raising his head._]
    What calleth me there?

                      Death: priest of Setebos.

    His temple is fallen: will build no more like his.

    Thou shalt restore his temple, Caliban.

        Nay, _will_ not!

                 None can say me Nay. I am
    The will to _not_ be which denies all wills.

    [_Through the Cloudy Curtains—slowly—Prospero enters,
          in troubled meditation._]

    And I am Caliban: [_Pointing toward Prospero._]
        will be his servant.

    Caliban, thou shalt fail. Thyself art failure, Setebos’ son.

               Myself am done with Setebos:
    Wear now Miranda’s cloth.

                        Thou shalt wear mine.

    [_Looking at the gray cloak._]
                 What’s that?

                    My cloak, where thou shalt hide
    To snare Miranda unto bondage. Hark!

    [_Far, cold, and thin a dirgeful choir sounds from the
          cell behind the figure of Death._]

                     THE DIRGE
    _Gray—gray—gray: Joy be unholy and hidden;_
      _Wan be the rainbow of wonder, frozen the tide!_
    _Blind—blind—blind: Passion be pale and forbidden;_
      _Dumb be the lips of the soul to Beauty denied!_

    [_Speaks to Ariel, who comes running from behind the
          Cloudy Curtains._]
    Blithe bird of mine, my heart is boding ill.
    Hast thou heard?

                 Nay, Master, what?

                               His dirges.


    Setebos’. Ha, ’tis not his lust I dread,
    Nay, nor his tiger tooth, nor belly on fire:
    ’Tis when his fever cools: when the gray ash
    Covers the life-flame, and the boiling senses
    Skim with thin ice, and the rank bloom wears hoar-frost:
    Not savage souls, ’tis dead souls that defeat us.
    Not red, but gray—gray.

    [_While Prospero and Ariel have spoken together above,
          Caliban, below, has been drawn half hypnotized
          by Death toward the cell._]

    [_To Caliban._]
                        Follow me.

                             I follow!

    [_At the cell’s mouth, lifts the gray cloak to put upon
                     Wear now my color.

    [_As Death touches him, springs back._]
                            No, no; thy hand-touch freezeth.
    [_Fearfully he leaps up the steps, crying aloud_:]
    Prospero! I will serve thee.

    [_Disappearing within the cell._]
                                 Thou shalt fail.

    [_Bowing before Prospero._]
    Master, raise up thy servant.

                         Raise thyself.

    [_Slowly rising._]
    So—while thou lookest on me, I can rise.

    Nay, look once more on what I now create
    For thee to rise by. ’Tis mine art, not me,
    Reigns as thy master. Master it, and go free.

    [_The Three move toward the throne, where they soon
          group themselves on the steps._]

    What wilt thou show me now?

                          A mind distraught—
    Grasping at realms invisible—like thine,
    Poor groping dreamer. Ariel, from the scroll
    Of mine old Gothic meditations, bid
    Thy spirits blazon now a glimpse of Hamlet.

    [_He hands to Ariel his scroll._]

    Your will, great Master, we revere it.—
    Lo where, to meet his father’s spirit,
    Pale Hamlet watches now, before
    The parapets of Elsinore!

    [_Ariel raises the scroll; then, unrolling it, bends his looks
          upon it, while the Cloudy Curtains part, revealing the_


On a platform at Elsinore, by blazing starlight, three Figures are seen
pacing the cold.

    The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.

    It is a nipping and an eager air.

        What hour now?

                 I think it lacks of twelve.

    No, it is struck.

    I heard it not: then it draws near the season
    Wherein the spirit held its wont to walk.

    [A flourish of trumpets, and ordnance shot off within.]

    What does this mean, my lord?

    The King doth wake to-night and takes his rouse,
    Keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-start reels;
    And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down,
    The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out
    The triumph of his pledge....

                         My lord, it comes!

                   [Enter Ghost.]

    Angels and ministers of grace defend us!—
    Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d,
    Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,
    Thou comest in such a questionable shape
    That I will speak to thee: I’ll call thee Hamlet,
    King, father, royal Dane: O answer me!...
    What may this mean,
    That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel
    Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon,
    Making night hideous, and we fools of nature
    So horridly to shake our disposition
    With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?
    Say, why is this? Wherefore? What should we do?

                  [The Ghost beckons Hamlet.]

    It beckons you to go away with it,
    As if it some impartment did desire
    To you alone.

               Look with what courteous action
    It waves you to a more removed ground:
    But do not go with it.

                     No; by no means.

    It will not speak; then I will follow it.

        Do not, my lord.

                 Why, what should be the fear?
    I do not set my life at a pin’s fee;
    And for my soul, what can it do to that,
    Being a thing immortal as itself?—
    It waves me forth again: I’ll follow it.

    You shall not go, my lord.

                      Hold off your hands.

    Be ruled; you shall not go.

                      My fate cries out,
    And makes each petty artery in this body
    As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.
    Still am I call’d. Unhand me, gentlemen.
    By heaven, I’ll make a ghost of him that lets me!
    I say, away!—Go on; I’ll follow thee!

    [As Hamlet, impetuous, makes after the departing ghost,


              [_Springing up._]
    No, no! Follow not! Let him not follow! ’Tis
    A spirit lureth to Setebos and Death.
    He knoweth him not, what ’tis;—but, master, _I_ know.
    Me, me too hath he beckoned with blind eyes
    And offered his gray cloth.

                     Thee? Death hath beckoned
    And yet thou didst not follow?

                            Hither I fled
    To serve thee, but he said that I should fail;
    Yet—yet, and thou wilt help, I _will_ not fail!

    And what wouldst have of me?

    [_Pointing to Ariel._]
                             Thy wonder scroll:
    Nay, not thy staff again! Will never more
    Botch with thy lightnings. Nay, but this littler thing
    Lend me, and let me bear it against Death
    To free _my_ father’s spirit from his gray pall.
    Lettest Ariel: let now thy Caliban
    Conspire to serve thee.

               [_He reaches for the scroll._]

                     Why, thou wheedlest well,
    And I must hope in thy self-weening. Yet
    Beware lest thou thyself shalt wear the drab
    Thou takest from him: Gray hath arsenic
    More keen than scarlet or the corroding blood
    That sered the flesh of Hercules.

                         Wilt lend me
        The scroll?

    [_With a gesture to Ariel._]

    [_Ariel hands the scroll, which Prospero then gives
          to Caliban._]

                   Use this token of mine art
    Less blindfold than the last.

    [_Caliban bounds away with the scroll._]

    [_Half protesting._]
                          Will trust him, Master?

    Yea, though he fail me yet again, for only
    Trust can create its object.

    [_Joyfully kissing the scroll and raising it._]
                                 Now, now, Setebos,
    Thy son shall wean thy Powers from Death, thy priest!

    [_Descending the steps, Caliban hastens to the mouth of
          the cell, where—as he is about to enter—Death reappears
          and hails him._]

    Welcome, Caliban!

    [_Death beckons within. Pausing momentarily, Caliban
          seems about to draw back, but recovering his purpose
          cries out hoarsely:_]

                  Go on; I’ll follow thee.

    [_He follows within and disappears. Caliban and Death have
          hardly vanished, when Miranda comes from her shrine,
          followed by the Muses, who are accompanied by a troop
          of Fauns. The classic hides of these are partly concealed
          by gay mediæval garments [Florentine and French], and some
          bear in their hands great vellum books and parchments,
          which they stack in a pile near the shrine._]

    [_Calling joyously._]
    Muses, sweet friends to mirth! Come forth again
    And fetch your little Fauns, that drowsed so long
    In mildew’d vaults of antique vellum, through all
    The winters of dark ages. Come, sad Clio,
    Unpucker your frown! You, pale Melpomene,
    Blush to a lovelier time. Yond yellow sands,
    That ran blood-red with orgies of old Rome,
    Shine golden now with young renascence. The ages
    Renew their summer. Joy hath its June once more,
    For once more Prosper reigns.

    [_As Miranda comes to him._]
                               ’Tis thy returning
    Restores my summer time. I see thou hast
    Been rummaging old lockers.

                           Aye, sir, and found
    These sharp-eared Fauns, hiding like wintered field-mice
    In attic parchments. So I set ’em free
    To play, while Care the Cat’s away.—Come, now,
    Sicilian boys, caper your shag-hair shins,
    And thou, Terpsychore, lead on their dance
    To please my father.

    [_At her command, Terpsychore and the Fauns—to instruments
          played by the Muses—perform a joyous dance before
          Prospero. As they conclude, he greets them with a smile._]

                     Thanks, you hearts upleaping!
    After long ominous hours, thanks for your festa!
    And you, dear child incorrigible for joy,
    Come now, I will requite you—not in gold,
    But golden fantasy, wrought all one glow
    Of shadowless shining.

                     Ah, another vision?

    Aye, ’tis a vision, that myself beheld
    Shine on the soil of France. I’ll show you _Peace_:
    The kings of earth at peace, after red battle;
    Two kings of men, each clasping brother’s hand
    Warm with the golden passion of strong peace.

    What kings were they, and where?

                           England and France:
    ’They met in the vale of Andren, ’twixt Guynes and Arde;
    I was then present, saw them salute on horseback;
    Beheld them, when they lighted, how they clung
    In their embracement, as they grew together.’—[17]
    But tell us, Ariel, what I told thee remember,
    How Peace was crowned on the Field of the Cloth of Gold.

    How brave a name! Would I had been there!

    [_Bowing, as Prologue._]
                                   ’You lost
    The view of earthly glory: men might say
    Till this time pomp was single, but now married
    To one above itself. Each following day
    Became the next day’s master, till the last
    Made former wonders its. To-day, the French,
    All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods,
    Shone down the English; and to-morrow, they
    Made Britain India: every man that stood
    Show’d like a mine. Their dwarfish pages were
    As cherubins, all gilt: the madams too,
    Not used to toil, did almost sweat to bear
    The pride upon them, that their very labor
    Was to them as a painting: now this masque
    Was cried incomparable, and the ensuing night
    Made it a fool and beggar. The two Kings,
    Equal in lustre, were now best, now worst,
    As presence did present them.’[18]—Lo, now, see
    How first they met, and clasped their hands in peace!

    [_Lifting Prospero’s staff, Ariel makes a gesture toward
          the Cloudy Curtains, which part, discovering the_


Here, to an opening fanfare of golden trumpets, takes place a
PANTOMIME, all of gold, depicting to the eye, as in a glowing fantasy,
the meeting of the Kings and their Retinues: the alighting of the Kings
from horseback, their embracement and their clasping of hands.

During this enactment of the pantomime, the choirs of Ariel’s Spirits
sing, unseen:]

                 SPIRITS OF ARIEL
        _Glory and serenity,
          Splendor of desire,
        Blend where golden lilies bloom
          Mid St. George’s fire:
          Lilies of France!—behold
        How they glow on the Field of the Cloth of Gold,
        And the battle-captains curb their bands
          Where the kings of earth clasp hands._

        _Power and principality
          Raise to Peace their choir
        Where Lord Christ his lilies cling
              Round the Dragon’s ire:
          Lilies of Christ!—behold
        How they flame from the Field of the Cloth of Gold
        Where the captains bow to their Lord’s commands
          And the kings of men clasp hands._

         [At the climax of the meeting of the Kings,


    [_Smiling, to Miranda._]
    This glowing taketh thee.

                        O, my good father!
    Methinks my soul is a flake o’ the sun, for where
    Things golden shine, I spangle, too; yea, burn
    To be Aurora, and trail cloth of gold
    Around the world.

                    Unless my will miscarry,
    Thou shalt be such a morning messenger
    And wake the world with beauty. Now my plans
    Wait on a vast result, for Caliban
    Himself hath gone to deal with Setebos
    His gray priest, Death.

                     What, Caliban! O glad
    Hope for us all! Your art begins to triumph,
    And Ariel’s Spirits to conquer.

                            That still waits:
    Meanwhile mine art drinks from this renaissance
    Deep draughts against a dark to-morrow.—Hither,
    You Fauns! Come, bear my gold-emblazoned scrolls
    And silver-claspèd books before me!

    [_Lifting the scrolls and volumes from their pile by the
          shrine, the Fauns come forward with them to Prospero,
          who turns affectionately to Miranda._]

    Will leave you now, and pore awhile on these
    For further conjurings.

    [_Detaining him._]
                          Yet conjure once
      Again before you go!

                     What wouldst thou, dear?

    Hardly I know: but something high, serene,
    And passionately fair: some vision’d glimpse
    Of fadeless youth, and lovers rich through love.

    Why, Ariel hath his orders still.—[_To Ariel._] List, pupil:
    To glad thy mistress’ heart, when I am gone,
    Pour the warm moon-wine of Italian night
    Into a dream-cup, where entrancèd lovers
    Seal with charm’d lips their vows. Therein dissolve
    What visions rise, till they shall melt in one
    Gloaming of love and music.—So, Miranda,
    Rich dreams! Faun-boys, bear on my books before me!

    [_Accompanied by the bright-clothed Fauns, bearing the
          great books and scrolls in quaint procession, Prospero
          departs through the throne-entrance._

    _Meantime, the Muses and Miranda gather at the
          shrine, where Ariel approaches Miranda._]


           Hark, Muses! Ariel, speak on!

        Ear and eye, now, list and lo:
        Mirth of mad Mercutio,
        Juliet’s sigh for Romeo;
        Dim Lorenzo’s murmur’d “Ah!”
        For moon-dreaming Jessica;
        Dance of flower-soul’d Perdita
        Wafted to her Florizel
        Like a wave o’ the sea: List well;
        Lo, their night renews its spell!

    [_At Ariel’s last word and gesture, the Cloudy Curtains
          part, disclosing the_


      In the glow and gloom of Italian night, as high clouds
          intermittently obscure the moon, a palace garden lies
          in deep shadow. Emerging only partly into view, where
          soft light-floodings fall on moss-stained statue,
          marble bench, and balcony, there is revealed at first
          [on the left] nothing but a glimpse of garden wall,
          before which flash in the dimness two pied figures
          [Benvolio and Mercutio]. Calling shrilly, their young
          voices rain showers of fluting laughter.


    Romeo! My cousin Romeo!...
    He ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall:
    Call, good Mercutio.

                     Nay, I’ll conjure, too:
    Romeo! humors! madman! passion! lover!—
    I conjure thee by thy true love’s bright eyes,
    By her high forehead and her scarlet lip,
    By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh
    And the demesnes that there adjacent lie,
    That in thy likeness thou appear to us!—
    He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not.

    Come, he hath hid himself among these trees,
    To be consorted with the humorous night:
    Blind is his love and best befits the dark.

    If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark ...
    Romeo, good-night: I’ll to my truckle-bed;
    This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep:
    Come, shall we go?

        [They disappear, swallowed up in black shadow. And now
             the shadow, shifting, leaves bare in mellow
             moonshine a glimpse of the garden and the balcony,
             where Juliet, bending forward, calls mysteriously
             into the dark below:]

    Hist! Romeo! hist! O for a falconer’s voice,
    To lure this tassel-gentle back again!
    Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud;
    Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies,
    And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine
    With repetition of my Romeo’s name.

    [Emerging, below, from the shadow.]

    It is my soul that calls upon my name:
    How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night,
    Like softest music to attending ears!


                  My dear?

                   At what o’clock to-morrow
    Shall I send to thee?

                      At the hour of nine.

    I will not fail: ’tis twenty years till then.
    I have forgot why I did call thee back.

    Let me stand here till thou remember it.

    I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,
    Remembering how I love thy company.

    And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget,
    Forgetting any other home but this.

    ’Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone:
    And yet no further than a wanton’s bird,
    Who lets it hop a little from her hand....
    Good-night, good-night! Parting is such sweet sorrow
    That I shall say good-night till it be morrow!

        [Once more deep shadow engulfs the scene; and now,
            out of the dark, harmonious music sounds in
            strains of passionate wistfulness. So, as the
            music sounds, on the right, beams of the moon
            reveal a flowery bank, whereby Lorenzo and Jessica
            are discovered.]

    How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
    Here will we sit and let the sounds of music
    Creep in our ears: Soft stillness and the night
    Become the touches of sweet harmony.
    Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
    Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:
    There’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’st
    But in his motion like an angel sings,
    Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins,
    Such harmony is in immortal souls;
    But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
    Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

          [Swift shadow sweeps over them in darkness. Waning from
              its visionary theme to a hint of the “muddy vesture
              of decay,” the music flows onward then into a dance
              melody; moonlight touches the garden again [on the left]
              with its liquid glow, wherein—whirled into light from a
              group of shadowy dancers outside—Florizel and Perdita
              are disclosed.]

    [As Perdita withdraws shyly her hand from his,
          speaks to her ardently.]
                                   What you do
    Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,
    I’d have you do it ever ... When you do dance, I wish you
    A wave o’ the sea, that you might ever do
    Nothing but that; move still, still so,
    And own no other function: each your doing
    So singular in each particular,
    Crowns what you are doing in the present deed,
    That all your acts are queens....

                                    O Doricles,
    Your praises are too large: but that your youth,
    And the true blood which peepeth fairly through ’t,
    Do plainly give you an unstained shepherd,
    With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,
    You woo’d me the false way.

                           I think you have
    As little skill to fear as I have purpose
    To put you to ’t. But come; our dance, I pray:
    Your hand, my Perdita!

    [Giving her hand confidingly.]
                        My Florizel!

    [Together they dance away into the dark and the luring
          music, as


      [_Still, after the curtains’ closing, the music continues,
          but now more faint, changing the idyllic strains of
          the dance rhythm to a minor sadness, which gradually
          takes form as a drear, monotonous processional.
          Through the faint music, Miranda speaks to Ariel._]

    Too brief! too brief, sweet bird! O Ariel, be
    Time’s nightingale, and charm these lovers back
    To yearn immortal youth. Methinks already
    Their absence leaves us age’d: Dost thou not feel
    A waning of high powers? Doth not a pallor
    Creep on the glowing world?

                          Yea, so I have felt
    After the equinox—November coming on.

    [_Starting, as she gazes at one of the Muses._]
    Euterpe dear! What lock of gray is this
    In thy bright hair?—Quick, Ariel: fetch my father,
    For sudden my heart aches, and I wish him near.

    Straight I will bring him, and my Spirits, too.
    Be merry, mistress: they shall soon restore us.

    [_Ariel hastens off, left. As he does so, the Muses, with
          downcast looks, file off right into the shrine._]

    Nay, darling Muses! do not leave me, too.
    What, must you all go hence? Still I must tarry
    To greet my father. Friends, good-bye!
          [_They depart._]
                                     Ah me!
    What voices make their dirge within my heart?

      [_While she has spoken, the mouth of Caliban’s cell,
          emitting a ghastly glow, fills with dim Shapes, which
          pour outward, and swarm slowly upward over the steps,
          covering the stage with a moving, huddled grayness,
          out of which two cloaked Figures rise distinct in the
          dusk. As they come forth and hover nearer to Miranda,
          a cold dirge issues with them from below._]

                     THE DIRGE
    [_As before._]
        _Gray—gray—gray: Joy be unholy and hidden;_
          _Wan be the rainbow of wonder, frozen the tide!_
        _Blind—blind—blind: Passion be pale and forbidden;_
          _Dumb be the lips of the soul to Beauty denied!_

      [_Slowly the gray hosts surround Miranda, who stares at
          them, only half believing their presence, till the
          dusk, growing lighter, reveals their long Puritan
          cloaks and peaked hats, and the two muffled Ones in
          Gray towering before her. Then faintly she speaks
          to them_:]

    What are you? Why are you come? Ah, you—’tis _you_:
    Priest of Setebos!—Caliban!
              [_She sways and falls._]

                         Ha, she swooneth.—
    O Death, unfasten thy spell!

                         Nay, thou hast failed.

    [_Lifting the scroll of Prospero, which he has taken from
          Caliban, Death makes a gesture to his followers._]

    Bear her to Setebos!

      [_Then, laying his hand upon Caliban, he turns with him
          backward, as a group of the gray-cloaked Shapes raise
          the limp form of Miranda to a cloth-draped bier, and
          thus bear her downward toward the cell’s mouth. In
          dim processional, as they go, they raise again their

                     THE DIRGE
    _Gray—gray—gray: Love, be sin-born of Misgiving!_
      _Life, be a garment of dullness, drab from the loom!_
    _Bleak—bleak—bleak: Death, Death is lord of the living:_
      _Not in the clay but the heart of man lies the tomb._

    [_Disappearing in the cell below, their chant dies away.
          Above them, from the left, Ariel returns, alone.
          Searching in the dusk, half fearfully, he calls_:]

    Miranda—mistress: He hath vanished. Nowhere
    Can I find trace of him. Yea, and my Spirits
    They, too—they, too, are gone, lost in the grayness:
    All have deserted us! Miranda—mistress!
    Where art thou? Gone, thyself?—and I alone!
    O gray, that hast engulfed a world of beauty,
    Where shall I find them ever more—my master,
    My star-bright mistress? Hear me, Yellow Sands!
    If you have beheld them, answer now my prayer!

              [_Outstretching his arms toward the Sands._]

    Prospero! Prospero!—Master!

    [_From far across the Sands bursts a mellow radiance,
          and the rich voice of Prospero calling in answer_:]

                          Ariel! Ariel!
         Ho, bird!

      [_Springing into light upon the farthest wave-lines of the
          Yellow Sands, Prospero comes returning, surrounded by
          the Spirits of Ariel, clad all in green and bearing in
          their midst a garlanded May-pole._

      _Marching joyously across the circle toward Ariel, all in
          radiant glow, they come shouting a choral song_:]

                 THE SPIRITS OF ARIEL

          “_Sumer is icumen in,
            Lhude sing cuccu!
          Groweth sed, and bloweth med,
            And springth the wude nu.—Sing cuccu!_

          “_Awe bleteth after lomb
            Lhouth after calve cu!
          Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth,
            Murie sing cuccu!_

          “_Cuccu, cuccu, well singes thu, cuccu:
            Ne swike thu naver nu;
          Sing cuccu, nu, sing cuccu,
            Sing cuccu, sing cuccu, nu!_”

    [_Leaping up the steps, they plant the May-pole at
          the centre, where Ariel greets them._]

    Dear Master! O blithe hearts: Have welcome home!

    Welcome our May-pole back!—Where is thy mistress?

    Alas! _You_ know not?

                          Nay, I know. But cheerly,
    My birdlings! Now that ye are flocked once more
    Round this enchanted tree, I’ll conjure you
    Out of mine art such joyous rites, that they
    Shall draw your Mistress even from the tomb
    To join our revels. Come now, gather round
    And watch my antic rites of Merry England!


_Now through the Interlude gates, and from all sides, a jocund festival
pours into the illumined space of the ground-circle: the folk festival
of Elizabethan England._

_Simultaneously, in different parts, as in a merry rural fair, various
popular arts and pastimes begin, and continue together: Morris dancers
and pipers, balladists and play-actors, folk dancers, fiddlers,
clowns, and Punch-and-Judy performers romp, rant, parade, and jingle
amongst flower-girls and gay-garbed jesters spangling by the bright
venders’ booths._

_Central, at a point of vantage, above a gaping crowd of lumpkins and
children, Noah’s wife harangues the heavens from the old play._

_So they pursue their merriment, till the low rumble and lowering of a
thunder-cloud disperses them with its passing shadow._


      [_At the conclusion now of the English Interlude, out
          of the shadow a roseate glow suffuses the cell of
          Caliban, from which the green-clad Spirits of Ariel
          come running forth, bringing in their midst Miranda.
          Leading her in daisy chains, they mount with her the
          steps toward Prospero, singing in glad chorus_:]

                 THE SPIRITS OF ARIEL
    “_Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king;
      Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
      Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
         Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!_

    “_The palm and may make country houses gay,
      Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
      And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:
         Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!_

    “_The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
      Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
      In every street these tunes our ears do greet:
         Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
               Spring! the sweet Spring!_”

    [_Greeting her._]
    Welcome, most dear!

                     Once more you bring me home,
    And the gray world wears green!

              THE VOICE OF CALIBAN
    [_Calling, beneath._]
                            Ho, Spring-i’-the-air!


    [_From his cell, bare-headed, with gray cloak unbound
          and flapping behind, Caliban bursts forth and
          hastens toward them._]

          Spring-i’-the-air! Ah, leave me not alone!
    Take me forth with thee, too! Not Death can hold me
    When thou goest forth from him.

                         It was thyself
    That led’st me unto him.

                        With thee—with thee
    Would I lie even with Death. But when thou leavest,
    Thy life-song prickleth his sod, and maketh my sap
    To leap, and lick the sun again.
          [_Kneeling before her._]
                                  O, whither
    Thou goest, let Caliban go, and wear thy cloth
    Whatso its colors be!

                      Keep from her, slave!
    Touch not her hem. Her Muses garbed thee once
    Gay in her colors. Thou soiled’st them with shame.
    Next time thou worest drab, and lured’st thy Mistress
    Deathward in gray. Now—now thou darest crave
    Once more to wear her cloth?

                           Yea, do I! See:
    This cloak—so I forswear it!

    [_He puts off the gray cloak, tears it, and tramples upon
          it; then turns to Miranda._]

                             Give me now
         Thy green to wear!

                    Insolence infinite!
    Ariel, my staff!

                 Stay!—What to do?

    [_About to raise the staff._]
                                   To teach
    This unwhipt hound—to howl.

    [_Starting back._]
                           Great Master!

    Dear Father! Patience needs no quick compulsion.
    Thine art is wondrous patient, and this poor
    Slow climber needs thine art.

                          Why, once again
    Thou art my wiser self.
    [_To Caliban._]
                          Go, lick her hand,
        And feed from it.

    [_Laying his cheek on Miranda’s hand weeps,
          with great sobs._]

                      Spring—Spring-i’-the-air, thy dew
    Dabbleth my face. O wonder, what art thou
    That fillest so mine eyes with rain-shine?

    Not I, can conjure spring i’ the air, and April
    Plies rarest art in England.—Ariel,
    Fetch us, from out my father’s dreamery,
    Nature’s spring-charm and echo of English song!
           [_To the Spirits of Ariel._]
    Our greenwood cloth! Come, busk him, merry men all:
    Aye, both of us!

                   This time I will not fail thee.

    [_To Prospero, indicating Caliban._]
    Have faith in this fellow-creature, and let these spirits
    Clothe him anew.

    As you like it, dear, be it so!

    [_The Spirits clothe Caliban and Miranda in green, while from
          within the Cloudy Curtains an unseen chorus sings_:]

                    THE CHORUS
           “Under the greenwood tree
            Who loves to lie with me,
            And tune his merry note
            Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
        Come hither, come hither, come hither:
                Here shall he see
                No enemy
        But winter and rough weather.”

          Spirits within, ho!
    [_The Spirits run through the curtains, at centre,
          and disappear within._]
                      Prosper’s hood
    Broods now a dream of Arden wood,
    Where young Orlando, daring fight
    For succor of old Adam’s plight,
    Defies the greenwood company—
    But meets there with no enemy.

    [_By the throne with Miranda and Prospero, murmurs aloud_:]
    No enemy!

    [_As Ariel raises his staff, the Cloudy Curtains part,


      A place of dappled shine and shadow in the forest. No
          boughs or trees are visible, but only a luminous glade
          of color, where falling sunlight filters a swaying
          glow and gloom from high, wind-stirred branches above.
          On the edges of the scene, the semi-obscurity half
          conceals forms of the forest company [Jacques, the
          Duke, etc.] who, seated about their noon-time meal,
          sing their chorus:

                    THE CHORUS
            Who doth ambition shun
            And loves to live i’ the sun,
            Seeking the food he eats
            And pleased with what he gets,
          Come hither, come hither, come hither:
              Here shall he see
              No enemy
        But winter and rough weather.

    [Enter Orlando, with his sword drawn.]

    Forbear, and eat no more!

                       Why, I have eat none yet.

    Nor shalt not, till necessity be served.

                     THE DUKE
    What would you have? Your gentleness shall force
    More than your force move us to gentleness.

    I almost die for food; and let me have it.

                     THE DUKE
    Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table.

    Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you:
    I thought that all things had been savage here;
    And therefore put I on the countenance
    Of stern commandment. But whate’er you are
    That in this desert inaccessible
    Under the shade of melancholy boughs
    Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time;
    If ever you have looked on better days,
    If ever been where bells have knoll’d to church,
    If ever sat at any good man’s feast,
    If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear
    And known what ’tis to pity and be pitied,
    Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:
    In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword.

                     THE DUKE
    True is it that we have seen better days,
    And have with holy bell been knoll’d to church,
    And sat at good men’s feasts, and wiped our eyes
    Of drops that sacred pity hath engender’d:
    And therefore sit you down in gentleness
    And take upon command what help we have
    That to your wanting may be minister’d.

    Then but forbear your food a little while,
    Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn
    And give it food. There is an old poor man,
    Who after me hath many a weary step
    Limp’d in pure love: till he be first suffic’d
    I will not touch a bit.

                     THE DUKE
                     Go find him out,
    And we will nothing waste till you return.

    I thank ye; and be blest for your good comfort!
                                    [Exit Orlando.]

                     THE DUKE
    Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy:
    This wide and universal theatre
    Presents more woeful pageants than the scene
    Wherein we play in.

                        All the world’s a stage,
    And all the men and women merely players!

    [Re-enter Orlando with Adam, whom he helps to support.]

                     THE DUKE
    Welcome! Set down your venerable burden
    And let him feed.

    I thank you most for him.

                         So had you need:
    I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

                     THE DUKE

    Welcome: fall to! Give us some music; sing!

    [Once more, as the chorus resumes the song “Under
    the Greenwood Tree,”


    [_The music dies away within._

    _With a strange, dawning reverence, Caliban turns to
          Miranda and speaks_:]

    “I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.”—
     Like him there you have furnish’d me food of pity
     And a new world with _no enemy_!

                           You have none,
    Save the blind storms of your own nature.

    Tempests are still now.

                         So mine art hath power
    Once more to calm? Good: now the time is ripe
    Methinks to rest awhile, for I am happily
    Weary, and will take rest from thought.—Miranda,
    Wilt come within? Unhood me for brief slumber,
    And smooth my couch?

                           Right gladly.

                 [_To Ariel._]
                                 And thou, too,
    One moment: I’ve more for this tutelage.

    [_Prospero passes off, right, by the throne exit, accompanied
          by Ariel. Miranda, about to follow,
          pauses at Caliban’s entreating voice._]

    Stay! What your pity hath made me cries to you—
    Leave me not! Let me be yours!

                        How mean you—mine?

    Your Caliban, your creature, your bond slave
    To fetch and bear for you.

                         I want no bonds
    ’Twixt me and any friend. Nay, we are friends
    And free to serve each other.

                          Yet I yearn
    For more: I know not what.

                        What more could be
       More happy?

               Here I crawled upon my belly
    Brute-stuttering for you, where now I stand
    And pray—with Prosper’s tongue. His art hath bred
    Within my blood a kinship with your kindness
    That cries: “Miranda, thou and I are one!”—
    I know not how—I know not how.

                              You love me.
    ’Tis simple, then: I love you, Caliban.

    [_In a splendor of amazement._]
           Lovest me—thou? thou!—Wilt be mine?

                                     Nay, truly
    You know not how. Love knows not _mine_ and _thine_,
    But only _ours_; and all the world is ours
    To serve Love in. I am not _thine_, good friend.

    [_She goes within._]

    Stay yet!—She loveth me! Yet Love, she saith,
    Love knows not _mine_ and _thine_.

               A VOICE FROM BENEATH
    [_Calls deeply._]
                           She shall be thine,

             Mine! Who saith that word?

                    THE VOICE
                                  She shall
          Be thine!

              How mine?—Say!

                    THE VOICE
                          Thou shalt fight for her.

       [_Pointing toward the Cloudy Curtains._]
    Shall fight? Nay, there—the youth put by his sword,
    For the other said: “Your gentleness shall force
    More than your force move us to gentleness.”

                    THE VOICE
    Yet thou shalt fight!

    [_Springing forward above his cell._]
                          What art thou?
    [_From the mouth of the cell a flame-colored Figure
          strides forth and replies_:]

                    THE FIGURE
                              War: thy father’s
    Priest.—Caliban, remember Setebos!

    Ha, Setebos! Com’st thou once more with priest-craft
    To lure me back to him?—Begone!

                                     Yet not
    Without _me_ shalt thou win Miranda.


    [_Returning within the cell, disappears as his voice
          dies away._]
    Remember War! Miranda shall be thine!


    [_Comes running from the throne entrance._]
                   Ho, pupil, now be merry!
    Great Prosper sleeps, and from his slumber sends thee
    A dream of fairy laughter.

    [_Darkly, amazed._]

    An English make-believe of antic elves
    And merry wives, to douse the lustful fire
    Of old John Falstaff, lured to Windsor Forest.—
    Our Master deems thou hast learned art enough
    To laugh at apings of it.

    [_Still amazed, but curious._]

                            Aye, list!

    [_Caliban stands on one side, with arms folded and

        To Windsor’s magic oak now turn:
        There—his fatty bulk in guise
        Of the hornèd hunter Herne—
        Big Sir John in ambush lies
        Where the counterfeited fays
        Troop along the forest ways:
        How his lust will cease to burn
        For the Merry Wives—now gaze
        Yonder by the oak, and learn!

    [_Ariel raises his staff. Parting, the Cloudy Curtains


      The gigantic trunk of an oak rises in moonlight, surrounded
          by the glimmering purple of the obscure forest.

      Trooping from the left, enter the disguised Fairies,
          following their leader Sir Hugh Evans.]

    Trib, trib, fairies; come; and remember your parts:
    be pold, I pray you; follow me into the pit; and when
    I give the watch ’ords, do as I pid you: Come,
    come; trib, trib.

    [They conceal themselves.

    A distant chiming sounds as Falstaff enters, disguised
    as Herne, wearing a stag’s head with great

    The Windsor bell hath struck twelve; the minute
    draws on. Now, the hot-blooded gods assist me!
    Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy Europa;
    love set on thy horns. O powerful love! That, in
    some respects, makes a beast a man, in some other
    a man a beast.

    [_Listening intently near the edge of the scene._]
    A man a beast!

      Think on ’t, Jove: Where gods have hot backs, what shall
          poor men do? For me, I am here a Windsor stag; and
          the fattest, I think, i’ the forest. Send me a cool
          rut-time, Jove! Who comes here? My doe?

          [Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page.]

                    MRS. FORD
    Sir John! Art thou there, my deer? My male deer?

    My doe with the black scut! Let the sky rain potatoes,
    let it thunder to the tune of green sleeves; I will
    shelter me here.

                    MRS. FORD
    Mistress Page is come with me, sweetheart.

    Divide me like a bribe buck, each a haunch: Am I a
    woodman, ha? Speak I like Herne the hunter?
    As I am a true spirit, welcome!

                   [Noise within.]

                    MRS. PAGE
    Alas, what noise?

                    MRS. FORD
                  Heaven forgive our sins!

    What should this be?

             MRS. PAGE AND MRS. FORD
                         Away! Away!
          [They run off.]

    I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil
    that’s in me should set hell on fire; he would never
    else cross me thus.

    [Enter Sir Hugh Evans, disguised as before; Pistol,
          as Hobgoblin; Mistress Quickly, Anne Page, and
          others as Fairies, with tapers.]

                   MRS. QUICKLY
    Fairies, black, gray, green, and white,
    You moonshine revellers, and shades of night,
    You orphan heirs of fixed destiny,
    Attend your office and your quality.
    Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy oyes.

    Elves, list your names; silence, you airy toys!

    They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die:
    I’ll wink and couch: no man their works must eye.
              [He lies upon his face.]

    Where’s Bede? Go you, and where you find a maid
    That, ere she sleeps, has thrice her prayers said,
    Raise up the organs of her fantasy;
    Sleep she as sound as careless infancy!
    But those as sleep and think not on their sins
    Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides, and shins!

    [_Growing excitedly absorbed._]
           Ha, _pinch_ them, saith!

                   MRS. QUICKLY
    Away; disperse: but till ’tis one o’clock,
    Our dance of custom round about the oak
    Of Herne the hunter, let us not forget.

    Pray you, lock hand in hand; yourselves in order set;
    And twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns be
    To guide our measure round about the tree.
    But, stay; I smell a man of middle-earth.

    Heaven defend me from that Welsh fairy, lest he
    transform me to a piece of cheese!

    Vile worm, thou wast o’erlook’d even in thy birth.

                   MRS. QUICKLY
    With trial-fire touch me his finger-end:
    If he be chaste, the flame will back descend
    And turn him to no pain; but if he start,
    It is the flesh of a corrupted heart.

         A trial, come.

                Come, will this wood take fire?
        [They burn him with their tapers.]

         Oh! Oh! Oh!

    [_Crying out._]
      Ah, ah! They plague him, too!

                   MRS. QUICKLY
    Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire!
    About him, Fairies; sing a scornful rhyme;
    And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time.

    [As they dance about him, pinch, burn him, and sing:]

    Fie on sinful fantasy!
    Fie on lust and luxury!
    Lust is but a bloody fire
    Kindled with unchaste desire,
    Fed in heart, whose flames aspire
    As thoughts do blow them, higher and higher.
    Pinch him, Fairies, mutually;
    Pinch him for his villany;
    Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him about,
    Till candles and starlight and moonshine be out!

         [Rising and pulling off his buck’s head, cries out:]
    Oh! Oh! Oh!
         [As he is about to flee, tormented by the dancing figures,


    [_Bursting into bitter laughter._]
    Ah-ha, ha!
    “Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire!”
    Mocketh me, mocketh me, ah!—A man with horns
    And heart of monster!
          [_Striding fiercely toward Ariel._]
                          He mocketh me, thy lord!

    [_Laughing silverly._]
    Why, ’tis but fairy sport for laughter.

    [_With choking passion._]
    Ah-ha! Me, too—me, too, thy spirits plagued
    And pinched, to piping jigs.
                 [_Seizing Ariel._]
                                 I tell thee, smiling
    Spirit, thy laughter scorcheth me with nettles,
                 [_Pointing toward the curtains._]
    And that hot bulk of lust hath made my loins
    To rage with boiling blood.

                        Unclutch thy hand!

    Not till I bleed that oil of laughter from thee
    Which lappeth me in flame.

                 THE VOICE OF WAR
    [_Calls deeply from below._]
                               Hail, Caliban!

    [_Pausing, releases Ariel, and listens._]
    Callest me, War?

                    THE VOICE
                   Miranda shall be thine!

    Mine!—Yea, now I am mocked to know myself
    What rutting stag I am! And her, the doe
    I mate, my horns shall battle for, and be
    Mine own—mine, mine! Miranda!

    [_Coming from within, right, raises her hand in gentle
                              Hush thy tone;
            My father slumbers yet.
    [_Showing Prospero’s hood, which she carries._]
                            He hath put by
    This hood, wherein he sends thee here another

    [_Stares at her, breathing hard._]
               So: what now?

    [_To Miranda._]
                       He rages, Mistress.
    Beware! He babbleth of War.

                          Why, then he conjures
    The dream my father sends: another picture,
    Painted in gules on England’s ancient shield:
    King Harry, by the high walls of Harfleur.
                 [_To Caliban._]
    So you may learn, good friend, how noblest natures
    Are moved to tiger passions—by a painting
    Called Honor, dearer than their brothers’ lives.

    Why will he show me this?

                        Perchance that you,
    Born of a tiger’s loins, seeing that picture,
    May recognize an image of yourself
    And so recoil to reason and to love.

    So, mocketh me once more?

                           Nay, never that.
    But let us look thereon, and learn together.

    [_Starts toward her, but curbs himself, trembling._]

    [_To Ariel._]
                   Hold his magic hood and conjure.

    [_Taking the hood of Prospero._]

         Image of Strife, may never more
           Your like draw near!
         Pageant of long-forgotten War,
         Harry of England, lo, is here!

    [_As Ariel lifts Prospero’s hood on the staff, the
          Cloudy Curtains party and discover_


      Before high mediæval walls, partly shattered, to pealing
          of trumpets, appear in their armor, King Henry the
          Fifth, and his nobles, surrounded by soldiers, with
          cross-bows and scaling-ladders.

      Standing above on a parapet, the King is exhorting them
          with vehement ardor.

                   KING HENRY
    Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,
    Or close the wall up with the English dead!
    In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
    As modest stillness and humility:
    But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
    Then imitate the action of the tiger;
    Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
    Disguise fair nature with hard-favor’d rage;
    Then lend the eye a terrible aspect....
    Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
    To his full height. On, on, you noble English,
    Whose blood is fet from fathers of War-proof!...
    Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
    And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen,
    Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
    The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
    That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not....
    I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
    Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot.
    Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
    Cry, “God for Harry, England, and Saint George!”

                   THE SOLDIERS
               [With a great shout.]
    Ho, God for Harry, England, and Saint George!

    [As they leap forward, to the blare of trumpets, and
          begin to scale the ladders,


    [_Instantly Caliban, seizing from the staff the hood of
          Prospero, shakes it aloft and shouts_:]


    Ho, God for Caliban and Setebos!
    War, War for Prosper’s throne! Miranda’s shrine!
    [_A booming detonation resounds, and a roar of voices
          from below._]

                    THE VOICES

    Caliban, Caliban, hail!

    [_From the throne-entrance Prospero—unhooded—hastens
          in, surrounded by the Spirits of Ariel, bearing
          long shining lances. Mounting swiftly the throne
          and joined by Ariel and Miranda, Prospero calls
          to Caliban, who—wearing his hood and lifting his
          staff—strides toward him._]

    [_His unhooded features revealing their likeness to
                        Who wakes my sleep
    With these usurping thunders?

                            War and I!
    Now Setebos returns, and thou art fallen!

    [_A second detonation booms._

    _Red glare bursts from Caliban’s cell, and War rushes
          forth with the Powers of Setebos, clad in his flaring
          habiliments, followed by the groups of Lust and Death._

      _Bearing lighted torches, amid the roaring of Setebos
          choruses, flashing fireworks and bombs, they swarm
          upon the half-obscure stage._

      _Led by War, the flame-colored hordes clash with the
          Spirits of Ariel, overcome them, and take captive
          Miranda, Prospero, and Ariel._

      _As War holds Miranda in his power, Prospero confronts
          Caliban who—wearing his hood and raising his
          staff—exults before him_:]

    Hail, Prospero! Who now is master-artist!
    Who wieldeth now the world?

                            Hail, Caliban!
    Slumb’ring, from me thou robb’st my hood and staff
    Which wield my power; yet not mine art they wield
    Without my will: my will thou canst not rob
    Nor ravish.

    [_With eyes gleaming._]
                But Miranda!

                         Nay, nor her:
    For she is charmed against thy body’s rape
    By chastity of soul. Thy will and War
    May break, but cannot build the world: And One,
    Who bore us all within her womb, still lives
    To stanch our wounds with her immortal healing.


           Yonder, on the Yellow Sands! She rises now
    And calls across the tides of fleeting change
    Her deathless artists of the plastic mind—
    My art that builds the beauty of the world.


_Where Prospero points, the light passes from the pageant of War to the
centre of the Yellow Sands._

_There, in mellow splendor, a serene female Figure, rising majestic
from the altar, calls to the thronging shadows._

               THE SPIRIT OF TIME

    Children of men, my passionate children, hark!
    To-day and Yesterday I am To-morrow:
          Out of my primal dark
          You dawn—my joy, my sorrow.

    Lovers of life, you rapturous lovers, lo
    The lives you clutch are by my lightnings riven:
          Yea, on my flux and flow,
          Like sea-birds tempest-driven.

    Yet from my founts of life, fecund, divine,
    Still dauntless lovers dare my dark tribunal,
          Building a common shrine
          To hold their love communal.

    So out of War up looms unconquered Art:
    Blind forces rage, but masters rise to mould them.
          Soldiers and kings depart;
          Time’s artists—still behold them!

_As the Spirit of Time ceases to speak, the light passes to the
entrances of the Greek ground-circle, where now—from either
side—enters a Pageant of the great Theatres of the world—from the
ancient Theatre of Dionysus to the Comedie Francaise—in symbolic
groups, with their distinctive banners and insignia. The names of these
are blazoned on their group standards, and the groups themselves [like
those that follow] are announced from either end of the high balcony
above the inner stage by two spirit Trumpeters, the one beneath a
glowing disk of the sun, the other beneath a sickle moon._

_While these, below, have ranged themselves on the ground-circle and
steps above—the groups of War, Lust, and Death have dwindled away in
the background darkness—leaving only Prospero, Miranda, and Ariel,
grouped in light at the centre._

_Then on either wing of the stage, at right and left, appears luminous
a colossal mask—the one of Tragedy, the other of Comedy. Through the
mouths of these, now come forth, in national pageant groups,[20] the
creators of the art of the theatre from antiquity to the verge of
the living present: the world-famed actors, dramatists, producers,
musicians, directors, and inventors of its art._

_First come the great Actors, in the guise of their greatest
rôles—from Thespis and Roscius of old to Irving, Salvini, Coquelin,
Booth, of modern times, the comic actors tumbling forth from the Mask
of Comedy, the tragic from the Tragic Mask._

_They are followed by national groups of the great Dramatists from
Æschylus to Ibsen, who pass in review before Prospero._

_Among these, with the Elizabethan Dramatists, grouped with Marlowe,
Green, Jonson, Beaumont, and Fletcher, and others, appears the modest
figure of Shakespeare, at first unemphasized._

_For one moment, however, as Shakespeare himself approaches
Prospero, he pauses, Prospero rises, and the two figures—strangely
counterparts to their beholders—look in each other’s eyes: a moment
only. For Prospero, slipping off his cloak, lays it on the shoulders
of Shakespeare, who sits in Prospero’s place, while Prospero moves
silently off with the group of Dramatists._

_Finally, when these pageants of Time have passed, and the stately
Spirit of Time vanished in dark on the Yellow Sands, the only light
remains on the figure of Shakespeare—and the two with him: Ariel
tiptoe behind him, peering over his shoulder; Miranda beside him,
leaning forward, with lips parted to speak._

_Then to these, out of the dimness, comes forth Caliban. Groping,
dazed, he reaches his arms toward the dark circle, where the stately
Spirit has vanished. In a voice hoarse with feeling, he speaks aloud._

    Lady of the Yellow Sands! O Life! O Time!
    Thy tempest blindeth me: Thy beauty baffleth.—
    A little have I crawled, a little only
    Out of mine ancient cave. All that I build
    I botch; all that I do destroyeth my dream.
    Yet—yet I yearn to build, to be thine Artist
    And stablish this thine Earth among the stars—

    [_Turning to the light, where the Three are grouped._]

               —O bright Beings, help me still!
    More visions—visions, Master!

    [_With gesture of longing, he crouches at Shakespeare’s
          feet, gazing up in his face, which looks on him
          with tenderness. With Caliban, Miranda too appeals
          to the Cloaked Figure._]


    [_To her raised eyes, he returns a pensive smile._]

    [_As Prospero_]                “Child,
    Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
    As I foretold you, were all spirits and
    Are melted into air, into thin air:
    And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
    The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
    The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
    Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
    And, like this unsubstantial pageant faded,
    Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
    As dreams are made on, and our little life
    Is rounded with a sleep.”

    [_Then, while the light focusses and fades in darkness on
          the pensive form of Shakespeare, the choirs of
          Ariel’s Spirits repeat, unseen, in song_:]

                         “_We are such stuff
    As dreams are made on, and our little life
    Is rounded with a sleep._”



                         CONTENTS OF APPENDIX

               1. FOREWORD
               3. INTERLUDES I, II, III
               4. EPILOGUE
               5. ANNOUNCEMENTS


The actors of a Community Masque being members of the community, it
becomes the function of the Masque-director to reverse the traditional
order of theatrical procedure and—so far as possible—to take the
public, as participants, into the confidence of “behind the scenes”

If this were a play only [in the Broadway sense], I should gather
together my staff and company for a preliminary reading, assign parts,
devise plans of rehearsal, and get personally in touch with the
comparatively few persons involved in its production. Being, however, a
new kind of drama, involving some thousands of persons as actors, and
some scores of leaders as a projected staff, it becomes practically
necessary to print and publish, before production, not only the
foregoing spoken and sung Masque-Proper, but the sketched-in outlines
of the nonspeaking Interludes which follow.

In the nature of the case, _these outlines are preliminary and_
[_though necessarily printed here_] _are still plastic and susceptible
to various modifications_. Thus publication at the moment in New York is
essentially for the purpose of rendering each of the hundreds of
participants more intimately familiar with his or her special
relationship [as group participant or group principal] to the work as a

To this is also added the need for making its text and stage-directions
available to communities outside of New York, which have already
expressed their desire to organize for its production after next May.

An interesting American phase of the New York production is the problem
of carrying its community meaning to the still polyglot population, so
that steps have been taken for the immediate translation of the Masque
into Italian, German, and Yiddish.

By referring to the chart INNER STRUCTURE, the reader will
see that it offers a technical solution for the participation of
about a dozen national and civic groups within the time limits of the
festival, without disintegrating the organic unity of the plot and
action of the drama, with which the actions of the various groups are
fused and synthesized. This form of technique [the result of some years
of thought and experiment in this field] contributes a basis for the
future development of the outdoor community art of the theatre, on a
scale adapted to modern cities.

The Masque thus becomes, so to speak, a Masque of Masques. For example,
the seven-minute Don Giovanni pantomime scene-plot of the Spanish and
Italian Action in Interlude II [of which Mr. Ernest Peixotto is the
community group-chairman] is being enlarged, under Mr. Peixotto’s
direction, into the spring festival of the MacDowell Club, performed
locally at its clubhouse, lasting an hour and a half, for the Prologue
of which the author has written the dialogue.

So each of the other Interlude Actions, necessarily brief in
time-limit, is itself a potential Masque or festival, capable of being
developed locally into larger proportions. And this is being done in
New York in the case of several other of the Interlude Actions.

At the present date, among those who are actively interested in the
production side of the Interludes, are the Misses Lewisohn, and
their associates of the Neighborhood Playhouse, for interpreting the
Egyptian; Mr. Franklin Sargent of the American Academy of Dramatic
Arts, in association with members of the Greek Colony, for the Greek;
Mr. Arturo Giovannitti [who, as poet, is also translating the Masque
into Italian] and members of the Italian colony, for the Roman; Mr.
Otto J. Merkel, and members of the German University League, for the
German; Mr. Charles A. Donner and members of the Alliance Francaise,
for the French; Mr. Rene Wildenstein, Mr. Peixotto, and members of
the Spanish-speaking community, for the Spanish-Italian; the New York
Branch of the English Folk-Dance Society, under direction of Mr. Cecil
Sharp, for the Interlude of Elizabethan England; the American Academy
and National Institute of Arts and Letters [Chairman, Mr. William Dean
Howells], for the Epilogue.

As indicated in the Inner Structure Chart, an Action of ancient
India[21] was originally planned for the beginning of Interlude I. This
was chiefly devised, in conference with the author and director, by the
director of the community Interludes, Mr. Garnet Holme, who has brought
to this New York production his very valuable experience in directing
outdoor festivals in California and England. Owing, however, to brevity
of time and the pressure of organization details, this Action has been
omitted from the production in May.




 2 HRS., 40 MINUTES.

                    SPEAKING ACTORS (ABOUT 30)
                    MUTE FIGURANTS (ABOUT 300)
                    INVISIBLE CHOIRS
                    ACTION ON STAGES A & B OF GROUND PLAN

                    NON-SPEAKING PARTICIPANTS (ABOUT 2,000)
                    VISIBLE CHORUSES
                    COMMUNITY DANCES
                    PANTOMIME ACTING
                    MASS MOVEMENTS
                    ACTION ON STAGE C OF GROUND PLAN]

Of the other members of the producing staff of the Interludes, Mrs.
Robert Anderson contributes to her direction of the community dances
her admirable knowledge of the subject, and Mrs. John W. Alexander to
the Interlude costuming [in association with Mr. Urban and Mr. Jones]
the excellent insight and artistry which contributed so much [with
the work of her husband, the late President of the Academy] to the
impressiveness of the “Joan of Arc” stadium performance at Harvard, and
other productions of Maude Adams and Charles Frohman.

In the following descriptions of the Interlude Actions, the numbers
of community actors are based on an arbitrary computation [at this
date] of a total of 1,500, at least double which number will require
to be enlisted to make sure of sufficient persons for the five New
York performances. _The numbers here printed, however, are purely
tentative and are subject to modification._ Of the terms used for
community actors, the term _Participants_ means those who take part in
the Interludes only; _Figurants_ those who also take part in groups of
the Masque Proper; _Specials_ those who take part only in the special
group, or groups, designated.

In the projected tour of the Masque outside of New York, a modified
performance of the Masque, on a smaller scale, when acted without
the Interludes, will require, in local community actors, only the

It will be evident, I think, to the reader, that the organization of
a community for a Masque performance on so large a scale is a special
technique, only recently in process of development. As a contribution
to this technique, the appended Community Organization Chart has
been drawn up by my sister, Hazel MacKaye, who has brought to it her
experience, of several years, in organizing and directing community
pageants and masques, some of them of her own authorship.

Space and time do not permit of further comment in this Foreword on
many important social relationships and reactions involved in this new
community art. The accompanying photograph, however, of a Community
Masque audience—150,000 citizens of Saint Louis gathered in May,
1914, to witness the Pageant and Masque of Saint Louis, in which over
7,000 of their fellow-citizens took part—may be suggestive to the
imagination of the reader. On the background may be seen, at centre,
the thousand-foot stage, and, at left and right, the tents of the
community actors, men and women.

Space and time also do not permit of any adequate emphasis upon the
enormous importance, and contribution to this growing art-form,
of music in its community aspects. In this respect, the splendid
pioneering work of Mr. Harry H. Barnhart in creating community choruses
in Rochester and New York City is fundamentally significant. In the
creative field of composition, rich in its manifold promise, Mr. Arthur
Farwell, director of the New York Music School Settlement, and composer
of the music of this Masque, has devoted probably more attention than
any other American composer to this community type of musical art.


Copyright, 1914. By E. O. Thalinger, St. Louis




To the Shakespeare Celebration of New York, since its origin last year
in activities of the Drama League, Miss Mary Porter Beegle, of Barnard
College, has contributed her unflagging zest and enthusiasm, Mr. Howard
Kyle his disinterested, manifold services, Miss Kate Oglebay her
remarkable thoroughness in organizing the Supplementary Celebrations.

In his original and deeply based work of experiment, through channels
of the People’s Institute and the School for Community Centre
Workers, Mr. John Collier has shown fundamental leadership in a field
all-important to the community purposes of this Masque: the modern
economics and organization of coöperative art.

As this Foreword goes to press, Prof. Richard Ordynski has joined Mr.
Urban in the work of the Masque’s New York production.

To Mr. Everard Thompson, producers and committees alike are indebted
for his unfailing, friendly resourcefulness.

As references to the reader curious to study the art of the theatre in
the eras touched upon in these Interludes, a lengthy Bibliography might
well be submitted. For this Foreword, it may suffice to refer to three
very useful works, in several volumes, viz: “The Drama,” Editor Alfred
Bates, Historical Publishing Company [a dozen volumes]; “The Art of
the Theatre,” Karl Manzius, Scribners, [5 volumes]; “The Theatre, Its
Development in France and England, and a History of Its Greek and Latin
Origins,” Charles Hastings, London, Duckworth, 1902 [and Lippincott].

The beneficial possibilities of community festival art and organization
are, of course, commensurate with the time and opportunity afforded
for their development. As mentioned in the Preface, the time for the
New York production has, by unavoidable circumstance, become far too
brief to accomplish, between the present date and the 23rd of May the
deep social reactions potential in this festival. A year, instead, for
the work of preparation would be none too much. It is hoped, however,
that the production of this Masque may at least help to establish the
festival movement in New York on a sound and perennial community basis.

                                                       PERCY MACKAYE.
      _New York, March 26, 1916._



                         PERSONS AND PRESENCES
                       _OF THE TEN INNER SCENES_

                  [Enacted by the Spirits of Ariel.]

                           FIRST INNER SCENE
                           SPEAKING PERSONS

                           PANTOMIME GROUPS
                 Roman Soldiers
                 Egyptian Populace
                 Wine Bearers

                          SECOND INNER SCENE
                           SPEAKING PERSONS
                 Her Attendant

                             MUTE PERSONS

                           PANTOMIME GROUPS
                 Trojan Warriors
                 Trojan Populace

                           THIRD INNER SCENE
                           SPEAKING PERSONS

                 Lucius, a boy
                 Ghost of Cæsar

                            MUTE PRESENCES

                 Shapes in the Darkness

                          FOURTH INNER SCENE
                           SPEAKING PERSONS
                 Saint Agnes [An Image]
                 A Shepherd [Impersonated by Prospero]
                 A Shepherd Boy [Impersonated by Ariel]
                 Other Shepherds

                           FIFTH INNER SCENE
                           SPEAKING PERSONS

                             MUTE PERSONS
                 The Ghost of Hamlet’s Father

                           SIXTH INNER SCENE
                     [Derivative from Shakespeare]
                 King Henry the Eighth, of England
                 King Francis the First, of France
                 Their Soldiers and Followers

                          SEVENTH INNER SCENE
                           SPEAKING PERSONS

                             MUTE PERSONS

                          EIGHTH INNER SCENE
                           SPEAKING PERSONS

                           PANTOMIME GROUPS
                 Foresters of Arden

                           NINTH INNER SCENE
                           SPEAKING PERSONS
                 Sir Hugh Evans [as Fairy]
                 Sir John Falstaff
                 Mistress Ford
                 Mistress Page
                 Mistress Quickly [as Fairy]
                 Pistol [as Hobgoblin]

                           PANTOMIME GROUPS
                 Fairies [Counterfeited by Followers of Sir Hugh]

                           TENTH INNER SCENE
                      SPEAKING PERSONS AND GROUPS
                 King Henry the Fifth
                 His Soldiers and Followers

                              INTERLUDE I

                 _FIRST ACTION_: _EGYPTIAN_

                     _COMMUNITY ACTORS_ [148]

                      PARTICIPANTS [75]
                        FIGURANTS [73]

                 Osiris, the god of summer and fecundity.
                 Worshippers of Osiris [Men and Women].
                   7 Groups, each group comprising
                   15 Dancers [Parts & Figs.]
                   5 Drum-players, Followers [Parts and Figs.]
                   1 Priest Leader [Participant]
                   Total Dancers                          105
                     ”   Drum-players                      35
                     ”   Leaders                            7
                   Osiris                                   1


Egyptian Worshippers of the god Osiris, B. C. 1000, celebrate his
resurrection from death by a dramatic ritual, symbolizing how the seven
portions of his rended body unite again at his rebirth.


At the deep pealing of gongs, from each of the three entrances to the
ground-circle, two diverging Processions issue forth, a seventh issuing
from the cell of Caliban. All are dressed in robes and concealing masks
of black.

Slowly, to the rhythmic beat of Egyptian drums [borne by the last five
in each procession], by seven separate routes, they move out upon the
Yellow Sands, and so converge toward the altar at the centre.

Within about a rod of the altar they pause, while their seven
Priest-Leaders move forward—each bearing a fire urn—to the altar, on
which an immense circular disk lies. On the disk, a prone Shape lies
concealed beneath a black cloth.

Bowing before the altar, the seven Priests then rise and, mounting the
steps, extend their arms to touch the rim of the disk. Thus—their
black masks turned skyward—they raise their shrill voices in a
mournful Egyptian chant.

Moving then backward to the ground, they drop incense within their
seven urns, from which rise seven pillars of smoke, lighted by the glow
of fire beneath.

In this increasing glow, the black Shape on the disk stirs, slowly
rises beneath its dark cloth, and extends upward its hidden arms.
During this, the drums beat from a low muffled cadence increasingly to
a loud rolling rhythm, to which now—at a shrill choral cry from all
the worshippers—the black cloth on the central Shape sloughs to its
feet, revealing—in a burst of radiant splendor—the flame-bright form
of the god Osiris.

In tall shining mitre, he raises his ox-herd’s whip and shepherd’s
crook. With these, to the joyous cries of his Worshippers, he bestows
with archaic gesture a seven-fold sign of benediction.

Once more then mounting the altar steps, the Priests step forth from
their black robes and masks in their own garments of yellow gold. Thus,
touching again the rim of the disk, they begin to revolve it—at first

And now at its first motion, Osiris begins to dance.

In this dance he expresses the former beneficence of his life, the
sufferings of his death, the rending of his body into seven parts and
finally the joy of his resurrection.[23]

In rhythm to the primitive music, the Priests revolve the disk to the
dancing movement of the god.

In this revolving movement his Worshippers below join in a dance on
the ground (expressive of the blending of the seven parts of his
body), where one by one successively the seven Processions encircle
the altar and the dancing Osiris. As they do so, they slough off
their dark garments, weaving thus a whirling movement in which the
proportion of black ever diminishes while the golden yellow increases,
until finally—in a blaze only of gold-yellow radiance—the Priests
raise aloft on its pedestal the disk, still spinning, while the
flame-red god, still dancing, is borne away in procession by his joyous
Worshippers, shouting aloud their shrill cries of “Osiris!”

When all have disappeared through the south gate of the circle,
Prospero on his throne speaks to Ariel,[24] announcing the Second Action
of the Interlude—his art of the drama in Greece.

                              INTERLUDE I

                       _SECOND ACTION_: _GREEK_

                       _COMMUNITY ACTORS_ [175]

                          PARTICIPANTS [100]

              _Individuals_ [2]             _Actors_ [9]
                Sophocles                   Antigone
                The Choregus[25]            Ismene
               _Friends of Sophocles_ [20]  Creon
                Aristophanes                Haemon
                Socrates                    Eurydice
                Anaxagoras                  Teiresias
                Alcibiades                  A Watchman
                Euripides                   A Messenger
                Fifteen Others              A Second Messenger

              _Chorus_ [60]                _Trainers and Stage_
               Choreutai [In four bands,        _Leaders_ [5]
                 fifteen in each band.]    Chorodidaskalos [Chorus
              _Musicians_ [4]              Orchestrodidaskalos
               Four Flute-players            [Dancing Master]
                                            Choryphaios [Stage
                                               Chorus Leader]
                                           Two Parastatai [His
                                               Assistant Leaders]

                            FIGURANTS [75]
                     _Athenian Audience_ [75]
                      Seventy-three Others.


Sophocles rehearses the Second Chorus of his drama “Antigone” in the
Theatre of Dionysus, at Athens, B. C. 440.


At the sounding of Interlude trumpets, the light passes to the great
gates of the ground-circle, from which simultaneously two main groups

From the right enter Athenian Citizens, accompanying Pericles and
Aspasia. These move forward to the north portion of the Yellow Sands
[between the centre of stage B and the altar] and there form the
semicircle of an antique audience, which faces the altar and the modern
audience. Among these, two seats are placed for Aspasia and Pericles.

From the left gate, meanwhile, has entered the Choregus [producer of
the play], in conversation with Sophocles, followed closely by a group
of twenty friends, among whom are Socrates, Aristophanes, Anaxagoras,
Alcibiades, and Euripides. These move toward the centre. There
Sophocles summons the Chorodidaskalos [Chorus Master], and the
Orchestrodidaskalos [Dancing Master] to confer with him and the
Choregus. Returning part way toward the left gate, the Chorus Master
calls aloud “Antigone!”

Enter, then [left], the Actor of the part of Antigone, followed by a
group of Actors comprising the impersonators of Ismene, Creon, Haemon,
Eurydice, Teiresias, a Watchman, and two Messengers. With these, who
carry their classic masks in their hands, the Choregus confers in
pantomime, directs them to join Sophocles at the altar, and then calls
aloud: “Choreutai!”

Thereupon enter the Choreutai [Members of the Chorus], sixty in number,
in four bands, fifteen in each band. Preceded by the Choryphaios [Stage
Chorus Leader] and four Flute-players [one for each band], escorted
by two Parastatai [Assistant Leaders], the Chorus march in military
order first south [each band in three ranks of five men] till they are
opposite the altar, then east [each band in five files of three men],
till they halt near the altar.

Here, after Sophocles has greeted Pericles and Aspasia nearby in the
impromptu audience [which his group of friends have now joined], after
he has chatted with Socrates, and been chaffed by Aristophanes and
Alcibiades, he turns with the Choregus to conduct the rehearsal.

After giving directions to Antigone and Ismene, who rehearse in
pantomime a snatch of their first scene together, and after a few
instructions to Haemon, Euripides, and Teiresias, Sophocles now bids
the Choregus direct the last few passages between Creon and the
Messenger, just before the Second Chorus in the play.

They do so in pantomime; Creon, with final threatening gesture to the
Messenger, makes his exit, and the Messenger—thanking the gods for his
escape from Creon’s anger—also departs.

And now, by direction of Sophocles, the Chorus Master and the Master
of Dance make signal to the Chorus and the Flute-players; Sophocles
steps back near Pericles and his other friends: the Flutists begin
playing and, under leadership of the two masters of choral song and of
dance, the Chorus—with vigorous, rhythmic cadence of their athletic
bodies—perform an austere dance about the altar, raising to its
measure their choral song:


The words of this chorus are translated here by the author from the
Second Chorus of Sophocles’ play “Antigone.”

    _Many are the wonders of time, but the mightiest wonder is man;
     Man! for he maketh his path with the south wind, over the surges
     Down where the storm-white billows
     Loom to devour him: Yea,
     And Earth, the immortal, the oldest of gods,
     The untoilsome, he tameth with toiling horses
     Dark where his turning ploughshare
     Plougheth from age unto age._

    _Birds, O the wild-hearted birds, and the breeds of the savage wood
     Deep in his woven nets he hath snared, and the broods of the
           bright sea
     Leadeth he likewise captive—
     Master of masters, Man!
     And high on the hills he hath tracked to her wild
     The shaggy-maned horse and yoked her in harness;
     Tireless, too, hath his spirit
     Tamed the wild mountain bull._

    _Words, and the wind of great thought, and the mood that mouldeth
           a state,
     These hath he mastered, and knoweth to parry the white frost
     Pitiless barb, and the pouring
     Arrows of purple rain.
     All, all hath he mastered, and all that may come
     He meeteth with cunning and power; but only
     Death hath he failed to master:
     Death is the master of man._

As they conclude, a runner comes hastening from the right gate, calling

Pericles rises, receives in pantomime the message of the runner, and
indicates to Sophocles that he must return to the city.

He and Aspasia and their followers depart [right gate]. With a gesture,
then, to the Choregus, Sophocles dismisses the rehearsal; he and his
friends follow the others; the Chorus forms again in files and ranks,
moving off with the playing Flute-players to the right Interlude gate,
where all disappear.

                              INTERLUDE I

                        _THIRD ACTION_: _ROMAN_

                       _COMMUNITY ACTORS_ [150]

                       PARTICIPANTS AND SPECIALS

         _Individuals_ [2]
            Caligula, Emperor of Rome
            Naevoleia, a female Mime
         _Roman Patricians_ [21]
         _Roman Populace_ [80]
         _Musicians_ [10]
            Two Players of Flutes
             ”     ”     ” Citherns
             ”     ”     ” Lyres
             ”     ”     ” Scabillae [foot cymbals]
             ”     ”     ” Shields and Cymbals
         _Pantomime Actors_ [7]
            Pantimimus, announcing the Pantomime,
                  “Hercules and the Sphinx.”
            Two Boy Pantomimi
            Hercules, the demigod
            Silenus, the satyr
            Servus, a slave
            Omphale, a Nymph [afterward disguised as the Sphinx]
         _Mimes and Dancers_ [32]
            16 Boy-Mimes, as Fauns
            16 Girl-Mimes, as Nymphs


The Emperor Caligula witnesses a farcical comedy in pantomime, enacted
in a street of Rome, A. D. 40.


As the last of the Greeks disappear right, the Interlude trumpets sound
at the left gate. There immediately resounds a great shout and clamor
of voices, crying aloud: “Caligula! Salve, Imperator!” The gate is
thrown open, and the Roman populace throng in, accompanying—in varied
groups of squalor and poverty—the gorgeous Patricians that escort the
Emperor Caligula, borne in a chariot, behind which follow a troupe
of Roman Pantomime Actors and Mimes who carry a light platform with
curtain, which they set up [centre, north], facing the altar.

The curtain is painted to represent the street exterior of a house,
in the Pompeian-Roman style. In the centre, set in a lintel frame, is
depicted a wide squat door, the stage platform forming its sill. Above
the door is a window casement. Both door and window are devised to
open and close practically. The top of the curtain is designed as an
over-jutting tiled roof.

With the Pantomimists come a group of Musicians, consisting of players
on flutes, shields and cymbals, citherns and lyres, and two who wear
fastened to their ankles pairs of _scabilla_, a kind of cymbal for the

The Populace and Patricians meantime cross to right of centre [further

In the chariot beside Caligula rides Naevoleia, a female Mime, whom
Caligula—with amorous playfulness—kisses and crowns with gold
laurel as she alights. Alighting with her, he himself helps to attire
her in the garments worn in her part of the nymph Omphale in the
stage pantomime to follow. Doing so, he thrusts aside—with a glance
and gesture of jealous anger—the Chief Actor, who [in the part of
Hercules] approaches to assist.

Caligula then escorts her to the improvised stage where she teasingly
parts with him to play her rôle in the Comedy. Caligula returns to his

And now the Comedy is announced by the appearance [through the curtain
door] of Pantomimus, a particolored figure, garbed antiquely as a
harlequin, wreathed and masked.[26]

Behind Pantomimus, enter [on either side of him] two little Pantomimi,
half his height, exactly resembling him in every particular. These,
as with skipping step and motion Pantomimus makes his introduction,
imitate his every movement of wand and gesture.

By his action, which is accompanied by flute, cymbal, and _scabilla_
players, Pantomimus describes very briefly the plot of the comedy which
is to follow, viz:



Hercules, lured by the nymph Omphale to live with her a woman’s way
of life, becomes terribly bored, rebels, and vows to a statue of
the Sphinx to resume his manly exploits. By the help of the satyr
Silenus, however, who makes Hercules drunk, Omphale—in guise of the
Sphinx—wins Hercules back and marries him.


As Pantomimus concludes this dumb-show exposition, he signs to his two
Assistants, who run out and bring back two stage properties, which they
place on either side: the right-hand one represents a squat pillar,
on the top of which is the sitting figure of a bronze Sphinx; the
left-hand—a set-piece of foliage and shrubbery.

All three then make their exit.

Enter, then, on the ground plane, from behind the stage platform,
Servus, a house-slave, masked as such. He places on the platform
a low seat and, beside it, a heap of wool and spinning materials.
Then he prostrates himself toward the left ground entrance, as enter
there—dancing to cymbal music—a group of young girl-mimes [without
masks], dressed as Nymphs and carrying distaffs.

In the midst of these—preceded by most of them—enter Hercules, in
grotesque mask, which depicts a comic-dejected expression. He is wadded
after the manner of the comic histrionic vase-figures of antiquity, and
walks downcast. Instead of his legendary lion’s skin, there hangs from
his shoulder the wooly pelt of a sheep; in place of his knotted club,
his hand holds a huge distaff; and for the rest he is dressed like a
Greek woman.

He is accompanied by Omphale, masked as a beautiful and amorous nymph.
Over her shoulders she wears his lion’s skin; in one hand she holds his
massive club; with the other she caresses him.

With coquetting wiles, the Nymphs in their dancing draw the two toward
the centre, where they sit beside the wool—Hercules, with heavy sighs,
beginning to spin, while Omphale, posing in the lion’s skin, approves
his labor. Here the Nymphs, reclined about them on the platform and the
ground, execute a rhythmic dance with their arms and distaffs, singing
to their movement:

    Angustam amice pauperiem pati
    robustus acri militia puer
      condiscat et Parthos feroces
        vexet eques metuendus hasta
    vitamque sub divo et trepides agat
    in rebus ilium ex moenibus hosticis
      matrona bellanti tyranni
        prospiciens et adulta virgo
    suspiret, eheu, ne rudis agminum
    sponsus lacessat regius asperum
      tactu leonem, quem cruenta
        per medias rapit ira caedes.

At the culmination of this, Hercules, who has been repelling the
attentions of Omphale, at first with feeble ennui, but afterward
with increasing determination, now rises in grandiose disgust,
and—snatching from her his lion’s skin and club—repudiates her and
the Nymphs.

Flinging down the sheep’s pelt and setting his foot upon it, he breaks
his distaff in pieces and, threatening Omphale, drives the Nymphs off
the scene, left. [During this excitement, Servus—who has been standing
aside—seizes the heap of wool, and exit with it in flight.] Turning
then to the image of the Sphinx, Hercules expresses in dumb-show how,
lured by the riddle of the Sphinx, he aspires to fight and conquer the
world for her sake. Laying his club and lion’s skin devoutly at the
foot of the column, he kneels, embraces it, and raises then his arms in
supplication to the Sphinx.

Thus kneeling, he is watched furtively at a distance by Omphale, who,
at his outburst, has run to the edge of the foliage, right. Hercules,
rising, puts on his lion’s skin, and brandishing his club heroically
for the benefit of the immovable Sphinx, goes off, left.

Immediately Omphale seizes from amid the foliage a sylvan pipe,
and blows on it a brief, appealing ditty. At this, from behind the
foliage, run out boy-mimes, in the guise of Fauns; she gesticulates to
them beseechingly. They run back and presently return, advancing to
pipe-music, accompanying and leading a goat, astride of which sits
Silenus, an old grotesque Satyr, in mask.

Omphale greets him joyfully and helps him down from the goat. She
then describes to him in pantomime the late outburst of Hercules—his
breaking the spindle, his enamoration for the Sphinx, etc., and prays
his aid and advice.

Silenus pauses an instant in philosophical absorption, then gives a
leap and skip. Omphale, seeing that he has hit on some plan, expresses
her pleasure and inquires what his plan may be. Silenus bids her call
a slave. Omphale claps her hands toward the left entrance. Servus
enters. Silenus signs to him. Servus goes back and returns immediately,
rolling in a wine-cask, from which he fills an antique beaker. From
this Silenus sips and approves. He then points to the Sphinx and asks
if be that of which Hercules is enamored. Omphale assents. Silenus then
directs Servus to lift the Sphinx down from the pillar. Servus does
so, revealing its hollow interior as he carries it. Silenus, drawing
Omphale’s attention to this fact of its hollowness, opens the door in
the curtain, and commands Servus to bear the Sphinx within. Servus does
so. Silenus, then, pointing to the window above the door, whispers
in the ear of Omphale, who, delighted, enters the door after Servus.
Silenus closes the door as Hercules reënters, left.

The hero has discarded his woman’s garb, and comes forward now dressed
as a man, with lion’s skin and club—his mask changed to one of an
exultant and martial expression.

Silenus greets him with obsequious and cunning servility and offers
him wine. Hercules, with good-natured hauteur, condescends to accept
the cup which he offers. While he is drinking, the window above in the
curtain opens, and Omphale thrusts her head out, revealing [within]
beside her own, the Sphinx’s head. Silenus secretively motions her to
be cautious. Seeing his gesture, Hercules looks up, but not swiftly
enough to detect Omphale, who withdraws. Again looking forth, as he
turns to drink again, Omphale mocks Hercules below, dropping wisps
of wool on his head, the source of which, however, Hercules fails to
detect. Silenus explains that the wool is really feathers, which fell
from a bird flying overhead.

Hercules now, under the sly persuasions of the old Satyr, grows more
pleased with the wine, and becomes drunk—as he becomes so, expressing
to Silenus, with increasing familiarity and descriptive force, all
the mighty exploits he intends to accomplish in the service of the
incomparable Sphinx, whose living prototype he declares he will
immediately set forth in search of.

Starting now, humorously drunk, to depart [right] he is detained
by Silenus, who points upward to the window, where now the blank,
immovable face of the Sphinx looks forth at the sky. Hercules,
bewildered, asks Silenus if it is really the Sphinx herself and alive?
Silenus assents and proves his assertion by pointing to the deserted
pedestal. At this, Hercules addresses the Sphinx, with impassioned
gestures. The Sphinx remains immovable. Hercules becomes discouraged.
Silenus then puts a pipe in his hand, and tells him to play it. He does
so, and is rewarded by a slow, preternatural look from the Sphinx. At
this he plays more vociferously and, surrounded by the little piping
Fauns, performs a serenade beneath the casement, while Silenus, looking
on from a distance, rubs his hands with sly delight.

The serenade ends by Hercules, on his knees, imploring the Sphinx to
come down. The Sphinx at length consents and the casement closes.
Silenus calls his Fauns away to the edge of the foliage, and Hercules
goes to the door.

For a moment nothing happens and Hercules knocks on the steps
impatiently with his club. Then the door opens and enter the
Sphinx—dressed below in the Greek garments of Omphale, but from the
waist upward consisting of the sitting image of the Sphinx, beneath
whose closed wings the arms of Omphale are thrust through and have
place for motion.

The Sphinx, its tail swinging behind, descends the steps, reticent and
impassive, attended by Hercules, drunk and enamored.

Then at the foot of the steps, to the accompaniment from the foliage of
the piping Fauns, who play softly a variation of the serenade theme,
Hercules woos the Sphinx, who, at the proper moment, succumbs to his
entreaties. After embracing him amorously, she extends her hand to him.
He seizes it to kiss; she withdraws it and signifies that he must put
a ring on the ring-finger. Hercules hunts about him in vain for the
ring. Calling then to Silenus and the Fauns, he explains to them the

Silenus, producing a ring, hands it to Hercules, who puts it on the
finger of the Sphinx.

Instantly a clash of cymbals is heard from the left, and a clapping of
palms from the right, and re-enter the dancing Nymphs, who encircle
the scene just as Servus removes from the bride the great mask of the
Sphinx, thereby revealing her to the astounded Hercules—as Omphale,
who embraces him, exulting in her ring.

Just as she is embracing and kissing him, the scene is interrupted
by a cry of jealous rage from Caligula who springs from his chariot,
calling: “Hercules!” At his gesture slaves run before him, seize
Hercules, and hale him toward Caligula, who bids them whip him.
Frightened, for an instant, Omphale [the Mime Naevoleia] then hastens
as if to intercede, but, seeing Caligula’s expression, taunts him with
toying bravado, and finally as he kisses her makes him burst with her
into laughter, as Hercules is dragged off through the hooting crowd,
flogged by Caligula’s slaves. [During the latter part of this Roman
Action, LUST has appeared at the mouth of Caliban’s cell and looked on.
His voice now joins the loud laughter of Caligula.]

Dispersing in confusion, the Pantomime Actors remove their curtain and
platform [right] into the darkness, which now envelops also Caligula
and the Roman populace.

                          END OF INTERLUDE I

                             INTERLUDE II

                      _FIRST ACTION_: _GERMANIC_

                     _COMMUNITY ACTORS_ [150]

                      PARTICIPANTS [150]
                        _Individuals_ [2]

                Forerunner [Einschreier]        Out-crier [Ausschreier]

                _Pantomime Actors_ [6]  _Musicians_ [10]
                Doctor Faustus                  Ten Pipers
                An Apprentice                _Symbolic Group_ [22]
                Lucifer                         Doctors [8]
                Two Devils                      Priests [4]
                Helena                          Artists [9]
                                                Melancholia [1]
                _Citizens of Nüremberg_ [110]
                Men and Women [70]
                Apprentices [40]


On a street of Nüremberg, in their Shrovetide festival, a band of
Apprentices enact, on a wheeled stage, a pantomime scene from an early
version of “Doctor Faustus.” Time: Sixteenth century.


At Prospero’s final words in Act I, the playing of pipes is heard
at the right Interlude Gates, where enter a band of Apprentices,
accompanying a wheeled street-stage, drawn by donkeys with bells and
set with a three-fold scene of Earth, Heaven, and Hell. Some of the
Apprentices are masked, some disguised as fools. They enter, singing
an old German folk song, and march to the centre of the ground-circle
(between the altar and the south entrance), where the stage pauses.
Before them has hastened a forerunner (Einschreier), blowing a horn and
shouting: “Schauspieler! Doctor Faustus!”

Along with them, Pipers accompany their singing. Behind them follow
folk of Nüremberg, gaping peasants and merry-making young people.

From the left gate, meanwhile [in obscurer light], enters a graver
group, clad symbolically as Doctors of Learning, Priests, and Artists,
accompanying another wheeled vehicle, the stage of which is wholly
curtained from view.

These stop at some distance from the former group, and look on from a
place of shadow.

And now, where the first stage has paused in a place of brighter glow,
the Actors appear and begin their pantomime.

Doctor Faustus appears on the Middle Stage, Earth. There, amid his
astronomical instruments, he greets the gaping crowd and points a
telescope toward the place of Heaven. Suddenly a comet flashes above
the stage. An Apprentice inquires the reason. Doctor Faustus explains
it by revealing its two fathers—the Sun and the Moon, which now appear
shining simultaneously in Heaven.

At this sorcery, Lucifer comes from Hell, signifies to Faustus that his
hour has come, and that he must follow him. Faustus begs a last wish,
which Lucifer reluctantly grants. He begs to see once more his beloved
Helena of Troy.

Then in Heaven appears Helena, who comes to Faustus on Earth and
embraces him. But now Lucifer—summoning two tailed devils with
pitch-forks—bids them drag Faustus from the arms of Helena, who flees
back to Heaven, disappearing there, as Faustus is prodded and haled to
the up-bursting flames of Hell, amid the exultant laughter of Lucifer.

At this _finale_, the stage and its audience moves off through the
left gate, while the graver Symbolic Group—crossing right in deep
shadow—pauses at the centre.

There, for a moment, the curtains of their pageant stage are drawn,
revealing—in mystic light—a dim-glowing tableau of Albrecht Dürer’s

As this pales into darkness, the Group with its curtained stage moves
vaguely off, and vanishes through the right gate of the Interlude.

                             INTERLUDE II

                       _SECOND ACTION_: _FRENCH_

                       _COMMUNITY ACTORS_ [150]

                           PARTICIPANTS [50]
                            FIGURANTS [100]

              _Individuals_ [4]
               Francis I, of France       _Heralds_ [10: Figurants]
               Henry VIII, of England      French [5]
               French Tourney-rider        English [5]
               English Tourney-rider

              _Nobles and Courtiers_      _Servants and Followers_
                     [88: Figurants]               [48: Participants]
               French [44]                 French [24]
               English [44]                English [24]


To celebrate Peace between their nations, after long war, Francis I of
France and Henry VIII of England meet on the Field of the Cloth of Gold
[A. D. 1520], and hold a tournament.


After the mystic tableau of the _Melancholia_ has departed, a peal of
trumpets from the Interlude gates [right and left] ushers in a pageant
of contrasted splendor.

In the left gateway appear the Heralds of the French, in the right, of
the English.

Then [to music of the unseen orchestra, above, playing the instrumental
music only of the Chorus “Glory and Serenity,” which later is sung by
voices in Act II], enter, on horseback, the two Kings, Francis I and
Henry VIII, accompanied by their Nobles and Servants.

All are clad in golds and yellows.

On the banners of the English is depicted St. George and the Dragon; on
the banners of the French—the lilies of France.

The servants set up at centre [just south of Caliban’s cell] a gorgeous
canopy with two thrones, in which the two Kings, dismounting, take
their seats, the French followers grouped on the left, the English on
the right.

Then to the royal presence, a Herald summons, by trumpet call, two
Tourney-riders [French and English], who come riding in armor, from
the south gate, on horses caparisoned with their national colors and

Taking their places, at signal again of the Herald, to shouts of
the spectators, they ride at each other with set lances, in a mock
battle—which comprises two actions.

In the first action, the French rider is unhorsed, in the second, the
English rider.

During both actions, the English cry “St. George for England!” the
French “Vive la France!”

Between the two actions, the French King rises and toasts the English
King, to acclamations of the French.

After the second action, King Henry compliments King Francis, to
acclamations of the English.

Then, as the two Kings clasp hands, both sides shout aloud: “God save
the King!” and “Vive le Roi!” raising aloft their banners and emblems.

At the climax of this demonstration, the invisible orchestra resumes
the march of “Glory and Serenity,” to which the Kings, remounting their
horses, ride off side by side, followed by their English and French
suites, now commingled, disappearing through the south gateway.

                             INTERLUDE II

                   _THIRD ACTION_: _SPANISH-ITALIAN_

                       _COMMUNITY ACTORS_ [150]

                          PARTICIPANTS [150]
                            [NO FIGURANTS]

            _Individuals_ [2]          _Improvised Comedy_
             The Doge of Venice              _Actors_ [6]
             The Spanish Ambassador     Il Capitano
            _Venetian Nobles_ [24]      Il Commandatore
            _Spanish Courtiers_ [24]    Brighella
            _Venetian Populace_ [94]    Columbina


On the plaza of St. Marks in Venice [A. D., about 1630], a troop of
Improvised Comedy Actors [of the _Commedia dell’ Arte_] enact before
the Doge and the Spanish Ambassador, amid the populace, during a
_festa_, a pantomime scene depicting an adventure of Don Giovanni.


When the last of the gold-clad French and English have departed through
the South Gate, a chiming of church-bells from the gates of the north
[right and left] gives signal for the entrance there of an Italian

From the right, enters the Doge with his Venetian nobles, accompanied
by the Italian populace; from the left, the Spanish Ambassador and his
Suite, accompanied by a troop of Improvised Comedy Actors, who set up a
platform on wooden horses before the Doge and the Ambassador where they
meet and greet each other, at right of centre [north].

Here six Actors mount the platform, at the back of which is a curtain,
divided in the middle.

These are _Il Capitano_ [the Captain], _Arlecchino_ [Harlequin], _Il
Commandatore_ [the Commander], _Pantalone_ [Pantaloon], Brighella, and
Columbina [_Columbine_]. They all pass behind the curtain, through the
folds in the middle.

After a moment’s prelude of stringed instruments, then, the Pantomime

First, in semi-darkness, HARLEQUIN appears, carrying a lighted
lantern on the end of a sword. At a noise of laughter from behind the
curtain he stops and trembles. The laughter sounds again, deep and
harsh; Harlequin trembles so violently that the lantern falls and goes

In the dimness, enter Il Capitano in the part of DON GIOVANNI,
muffled in an immense cloak. Harlequin falls on his back, feigning
death, but keeping his sword pointing upward. Stumbling against him,
Don Giovanni draws his sword and strikes the sword of Harlequin, who
leaps up. They begin a duel, in the midst of which they suddenly
recognize each other as friends and embrace.

Enter now [bringing lanterns, which illumine the stage more brightly]
PANTALOON and BRIGHELLA. Both are wrapped in cloaks.

Greeting Don Giovanni, who returns the greeting, Pantaloon explains
that he has a rendezvous with a beautiful young lady [the head of
Columbine having peered momentarily through the curtain]; that he will
make a certain sign to call her; that he must be cautious, as she has a
fierce and suspicious father. Don Giovanni becomes very interested, and
confides that he, too, must attend a rendezvous, for which he needs a
disguise. For this, he persuades Pantaloon to change cloaks with him.
They do so, their servants also exchanging cloaks.

Exeunt then Pantaloon and Brighella.

Don Giovanni now, approaching the curtain, makes the aforesaid sign
described by Pantaloon. At this, enter COLUMBINE, who mistakes
him for Pantaloon and approaches him lovingly. He allows her to do so,
but soon—opening his cloak—he terrifies her by his wrong identity.
However, he is handsomer than Pantaloon, and quickly wins her for
himself. In this Harlequin delightedly assists him.

Finally, just as Columbine succumbs and goes to his arms, her father,
THE COMMANDER, enters. Seeing her in Don Giovanni’s arms, he
bursts into terrible anger, draws his sword, and attacks the lover.
Harlequin tries to prevent him but fails.

Putting the frightened Columbine behind him, Don Giovanni returns the
attack with his sword, fights and suddenly kills the Commander, who
falls motionless.

In terror, Columbine and Harlequin scream and run out [through
the curtain], leaving Don Giovanni standing with one foot and his
sword-point prodding the dead body.

To screams and shudderings also from the horrified onlookers of the
populace, darkness falls on the stage.

Then, as suddenly—in a burst of light—the Actors come trooping forth
all together in laughter, make faces and comic gestures at the people,
remove their curtain and stage, and run off [right], to merry twanging
of instruments, followed by the Doge, Ambassador, and populace.

                          END OF INTERLUDE II

                             INTERLUDE III

In the New York production in May, 1916, the performance of this
Interlude will be arranged by members of the New York City Centre
of the U. S. A. Branch of the English Folk Dance Society, under the
personal direction of Mr. Cecil J. Sharp, who has devised the Action
of this Interlude, and has worded the description of it—in conference
with the author—as here printed.

                         _ELIZABETHAN ENGLAND_
             _Action Continuous, in 8 Successive Episodes_

                    _COMMUNITY ACTORS_ [about 400]

                      PARTICIPANTS AND FIGURANTS

             _Individuals_          _Tideswell Procession_: [100]
             Sun                    _May Tree Procession_: [100]
             Frost                  _Morris Dance Group_: [25]
             May Queen            Dancers: 16
             Hobby Horse Dancer   Attendants: 9
             Club-Man               _Hobby Horse Group_: [25]
             Fool                 Dancers: 15
             Witch                Attendants: 10
             King                   _Tumblers and Jugglers_: [25]
             Queen                  _Rustic Play-Actors_: [25]
             Noah                   _Winter Group_: [50]
             Noah’s Wife            _Spring Group_: [50]


Celebration of an Elizabethan May Day Festival on the outskirts of an
English town.



A group of 25 young men, representing Winter, all dressed in
close-fitting black garments, enter from Caliban’s cell. They carry a
ball and, commanded by one of their number—Frost—advance slowly and
dejectedly and lie down near the centre of the ground guarding the
ball. A group of 25 young men, dressed in tight-fitting green garments,
representing Spring, enter through the right Interlude Gate. Headed
by one of their number—Sun—they come forward running and shouting.
Winter[29] rise and stand in defence of the ball. A scuffle ensues
and the ball is released from the scrimmage. It is then kicked about
by both sides, Spring trying to force it toward the water,[30] Winter
repelling it therefrom. Sun and Frost encourage their respective
supporters but do not touch the ball. Groups of villagers come in, by
twos and threes [20 to 25 in number], and join the ranks of Spring,
who are thus enabled to overpower Winter. Eventually, one of the
Spring group secures the ball, holds it aloft and, surrounded by his
followers, runs toward the water. Winter follow, fatigued and languid.
As the Spring man approaches the water, maidens, 10 or 12 in number,
enter from various quarters and swell the group. The ball is then
raised and ceremonially thrown into the water; whereupon, the girls
join Spring in hunting Winter back again into their cave.


While Winter is being driven off the arena, a procession of Villagers,
comprising 50 couples [i. e., partners], enter through South Interlude
Gate and dance the Tideswell Processional Morris. The dancers include
men, women, and children of all classes and are dressed in their
holiday clothes, plentifully bedecked with flowers and ribbons. Each
carries two handkerchiefs, one in each hand, or, if preferred, boughs
of May blossom. They dance round the arena in a spiral until the front
couple reach the centre; whereupon, all raise their arms and shout on
the last chord of the tune. Spring and all the actors already on the
ground join in the procession at the rear, or wherever they can squeeze

                    3: _REVELS AND AMUSEMENTS_

Upon the completion of the dance, the dancers disperse noisily all over
the ground. The children play Singing Games, e. g., “Oats and Beans,”
“Here We Come Gathering Nuts (i. e. Knots) in May,” “Old Sir Roger,”
etc., in different parts of the ground—not too close together. Booths
and stalls are brought in, a rustic stage[31] is set up, tumblers and
jugglers, surrounded by groups of spectators, give their performances,
and all unite in a scene of general merriment. Couples, each consisting
of a boy and a girl, carry May garlands, sing May day songs, and
solicit offerings. The young men chase the girls and kiss them “under
the green,” i. e., while raising the boughs of green over their heads.

                     4: _MAY POLE PROCESSION_

The following procession enters from South Interlude Gate.

    [1] Two Jack-O’-Greens
    [2] Plough-boys with plough.
    [3] Sowers.
    [4] Reapers.
    [5] Wagon, drawn by several yoke of oxen, carrying the tree.
    [6] Milkmaids.
    [7] Blacksmiths.
    [8] Wheelwrights.
    [9] Carpenters.
   [10] Butchers.
   [11] Shoemakers.

    [1] Hidden in bushes of green, surmounted by a
        May Garland.
    [2] White smocks, patched with pictures, in red
        and black cloth, representing farm-animals. Hats
        covered with flowers, their plough smothered with
        ribbons and flowers.
    [3] Carrying baskets of grain, pretending to sow.
    [4] With reaping hooks or sickles.
    [5] Wagon and oxen decorated with greenery and
        ribbons, the horns of the oxen with flowers. The
        carters, who walk on either side of the wagon, wear
        broad-brimmed hats, short smocks, breeches, all
        covered with ribbons and flowers, and carry whips
        or goads similarly decorated, with which they urge
        on the oxen.
    [6] Carrying pails and dishes; wearing short
        dresses, and sun-hats or bonnets, all covered with
        flowers and ribbons.
    [7] With bare heads, leathern aprons, carrying
        implements of trade—hammers, anvils, tongs.
    [8] Carrying or rolling wheels.
    [9] With saws, planes, tools, etc.
   [10] Wearing blue blouses, carrying marrow bones
        and cleavers, and clashing them as they march.

When the wagon reaches the May-pit, the procession halts. The tree is
ceremonially removed, ivy, laurels, and other greenery wound round it
spirally, a large bunch of flowers placed at the top, and then, in dead
silence, solemnly raised to position. Directly this is accomplished,
the spectators raise a great shout and repeat it three times: “The Pole
is up.”


The men disperse in groups and, after some discussion and altercation,
proceed in a body to the woman of their choice, present her with a
wreath of May blossom, with ribbon streamers and rosettes for her
dress, and escort her to a raised mound of grass where every one may
see her. She is kissed “under the green” by the men, amid much laughter
and merriment. The woman chosen is a regular “man’s girl,” jolly and of
a romping kind, quite different from the conventional May Queen.

A large group is formed round the May pole in a ring, alternately
men and women, and all take hands. The May pole dance is then
performed—“Sellenger’s Round” and “Gathering Peascods.”


The hobby horse is made in the following way: A wooden hoop, about
3 feet in diameter, is covered with black canvas with a hole in the
centre, about the size of a man’s head. The canvas is edged with
red and white ribbon round the circumference, and depends from the
edges about 4 feet like a curtain. The hoop is then placed on a man’s
shoulders, his head, hidden in a tall conical mask of many colors,
passing through a hole in the centre of the canvas, the curtain hiding
his body and legs. In the front of the hoop is a long, slender horse’s
head, made of wood, and at the back of the hoop is attached a curly
horse’s tail about 18 inches long. The horse is accompanied by the
“Club-man” who is dressed in black, covered with rosettes and bows
of colored ribbon, and wears a grotesque mask similar to that of the
hobby horse. Throughout the proceedings, he faces the Horse and dances
backward, holding in his right hand a stout, nobbed club, about 18 to
24 inches in length, colored like the mask.

The hobby horse enters from the left Interlude Gate, escorted by six
or eight couples of men, gaily dressed and decorated with flowers,
singing the May song, in which the assembled spectators join. As they
make their appearance, the crowd runs out, meets them, and surrounds
them in a ring, in the middle of which the horse and its attendant
dance, the former every now and again dashing out and trying to
catch one of the maidens, who, with much laughter, usually succeeds
in avoiding his clumsy embraces. When the tune has been sung a few
times, a slight pause is made, the horse sinks down with his head on
the ground, the club-man drops on one knee and places his club on the
horse’s nose, while the crowd sing very solemnly the dirge-like strain,
“O Where is St. George?” At the conclusion of this, a slight pause is
made and then the riotous May song is suddenly taken up and the dance
resumed. This may be repeated once or twice, when the proceedings are
interrupted by the entrance of the

                       7: _MORRIS DANCERS_

The dancers, all of them men, are 16 in number and are accompanied by
a King and Queen, Witch and Fool, and Hobby horses. The Witch and Fool
head the procession, the former with his broom, and the latter with his
stick, fox’s tail, and bladder clearing the way. The King and Queen
march at the head of the Morris dancers, the King beating time with
his sword. The Hobby horses prance round and aid the Witch and Fool
in clearing a passage. The dancers move forward, dancing the “Winster
Processional Dance.” When the procession has reached a good position in
the centre, the tune changes and without pause the dancers perform the
“Winster Morris Reel,” “The Old Woman Tossed up in a Blanket.”

For the dresses of the dancers see photographs in The Morris Book
[parts II and III]. The Witch is a man dressed in bedraggled woman’s
clothes, with face blackened, and carries a short besom. The Fool has a
pork-pie hat covered with flowers and feathers, tunic, to the hips, of
bright multi-colored stuff edged with silver fringe, buckskin breeches,
stockings of odd colors, and bells round the ankles. He carries a stick
with a fox’s tail at one end and a bladder at the other. Sometimes
he has a dinner-bell attached to the middle of his back. The King
and Queen are serious characters, the latter being represented by a
man dressed in woman’s clothes. The King carries a sword and should
be dressed in the military dress of the period: the Queen is grandly
dressed, with a touch of comic extravagance, in the garb of a court
lady of the period. The Hobby horses—say half a dozen in number—are
of the “tournament” variety, and carry sticks and bladders.


When the Morris dance is finished, the company disperses and amuses
itself for a while until the pipe-and-taborers make their appearance.
This is a signal for every one to find a partner for a country dance.
Groups are formed all over the ground and “The Black Nag” is performed,
followed by a Longways dance, e. g., “Row well, ye mariners.” On the
conclusion of the latter, the dancers, who are already in processional
formation, dance off the ground to the “Helston Ferry Processional
Dance,” disappearing in different groups through the several exits.




In three main, symbolic groups—Theatres, Actors, Dramatists—The
Spirit of Time summons the creative forces of the art of the theatre,
to defeat the destructive influences of War, Lust, and Death, and
prophetically to survive them.


First, from the two gates [right and left] of the ground-circle, the
Pageant of Theatres enters in two processions, which group themselves
[right and left of Caliban’s cell] on the flight of steps and ramps
leading to Stage B.

Secondly, through the mouth-entrances of the Masks of Comedy and of
Tragedy, the Comic Actors [through the former] and the Tragic Actors
[through the latter] enter upon stage B, cross before Prospero
and take their stations, with their respective Theatres, on the steps
and ramps.

Thirdly, the Dramatists, of Comedy and Tragedy, do likewise.

In this procession of the Dramatists, occurs the pantomime and stage
business of the meeting between Prospero and Shakespeare.

After the procession of Dramatists, all three main groups are enveloped
by darkness, in which—after the final choir of Ariel’s spirits—they
disperse, unseen.


                       _COMMUNITY ACTORS_ [300]

                             SPECIALS: 300

             _Theatres_:    Total 100 persons [25 groups]
             _Actors_:        ”   100    ”
             _Dramatists_:    ”   100    ”
                  [33]Grand total 300    ”

From the following lists of Theatres, Actors, and Dramatists, revised
and modified, the final groups will be selected. The lists, as here
given, are merely preliminary, and have been sketched in, during the
printing of this Appendix, so as not to be wholly omitted from the
publication of this edition. As far as they concern the New York
production of the Masque, _they are not to be construed as anything
more than suggestive material for the necessarily impressionistic
pageant-groups of the Epilogue_.


                            ANCIENT GREECE
          Theatre of Dionysus at Athens, Epidaurus,
          Ephesus, Sicyon.

                             ANCIENT ROME
          Theatre of Pompey, Scarrus, Balbus Cornelius,

                      _Provincial Theatres_
          Antioch, Lyons, Herculaneum, Orange.

          Hippodrome, of Emperor Septimius Severus.

                        Florence      della Pergola
                        Venice        Fenice
                        Genoa         Carlo Felice
                        Milan         La Scala
                        Vicenza       Olympian Theatre

                        Lisbon        San Carlos

          Hotel du Burgoyne, Comedie Francaise, Palais
          Royal, Odeon, Porte St. Martin, Antoine.

                          Vienna        Burgtheater

          Weimar, Deutsches, Lessing.

          Art Theatre, Warsaw; Kremlin, Moscow.


                            _New York_
          Booth’s, Bowery, Wallack’s, Daly’s.

          Federal Street, Boston Theatre, Boston Museum.

          Arch Street, Walnut Street, Chestnut Street.


                         _San Francisco_



                          _New Orleans_

          St. Charles.

          Globe, Bankside, Bear Garden, Hope, Swan,
          Drury Lane, Haymarket, Covent Garden.

          Smock Alley.


          Thespis, Polus [of Aegina], Aristodemus, Neoptolemus,
          Thessalus, Athenodorus, Cleander, Mynniscus
          [of Chalcis], Callipides, Timotheus.

          Esopus, Roscius, C. Publilius, Ambivius Turpio,
          Haitilius Praenestinus, Bathyllus, Pylades, Publilius

          [_Actors_] Domenico Biancolelli, Luigi Riccoboni,
          Nicola Barbieri, Francesco Andreini, Fiorelli, Tommasino,
          Salvini, Madena, Rossi.
          [_Actresses_] Sedowsky, Isabella Andreini, Ristori.

          [_Actors_] Lope de Rueda, Navarro of Toledo,
          Alonso de Olmedo, Sebastian de Prado, Isidoro
          Maiquez, José Valero, Julián Romea, Rafael Calvo,
          Antonio Vico.
          [_Actresses_] La Baltasara, La Calderona, La Pacheca,
          La Tirana, Rita Luna, Matilde Diez.

          [_Actors_] Jodelet, Harduin, Rodogune, Talma, Got,
          LeKain, Molé, Fréville, Baron, Montfleury, Lemaitre,
          Coquelin, Mounet Sulley.
          [_Actresses_] Dangville, Rachel, George, Mars, Des
          Oeillets, Bejart, Champmeslé, Lecouvreur, Dumesnil,
          Clairon, David.

          [_Actors_] Louis Bouwmeister, Willem Haverkorn,
          Johannes Haverkamp, Andries Snoek.
          [_Actresses_] Mme. Wattier.

          [_Actors_] Possart, Bamay, Kainz, Iffland, Konrad,
          Ekkof, Dawison, Lewinsky, Döhring, Ackerman,
          Carl Bonn, Dalberg, L. Dessoit, Anschutz, Hasse,
          Beckmann, Gabillon.
         [_Actresses_] Sonnenthal, Devrient, Schröder, Carolina
         Neuber, Charlotte Wolter, Julie Rettich, Julie
         Löwe, Carolina Bauer, Geistinger, Zitt, Raabe,
         Buske, Fleck, Brockmann, Matkowsky, Dingelstedt,


          [_Actors_] Ludwig Phister, Christen N. Rosenkilde,
          Nicolai Nielsen, Emil Poulsen, Michael Wieke,
          Michael Rosing.
          [_Actresses_] Johanne Louise Heiberg, Anna Neilsen,
          Julie Södring.

          [_Actors_] Fredrik Deland, Ebba Hwasser, Pierre
          Deland, Karl Georg Dahlquist.

          [_Actors_] Johannes Brun, Henrik Klausen.
          [_Actresses_] Laura Gundersen, Lucie Wolf, Sophie

          [_Actors_] V. Samoilov, N. Samoilov, Nikitin, Ershov,
          Lenski, Karatygina (family), M. S. Shchepkin,
          [_Actresses_] Fedotava, Vyera Samortova, Savina,
          Karatygina (family), Kommissaryhevskaya, E. P.

          [_Actors_] Junius Brutus Booth, Jas. Wallack, Edwin
          Forrest, Edwin Booth, Lester Wallack, Wm.
          Warren, John McCulloch, Lawrence Barrett, E. A.
          Sothern, Jos. Jefferson, Wm. Florence, James A.
          Hackett, John Gilbert, Edward L. Davenport, Wm.
          B. Wood, T. A. Cooper, Wilson Barrett, Rignold,
          Chas. Wheatley, MacKean, Buchanon, James Murdock,
          J. B. Roberts, Williamson, Whiffin, Tony
          Pastor, Hart, Harrigan, Stuart Robson, John T. Raymond,
          Denman Thompson, Maurice Barrymore,
          Richard Mansfield.
          [_Actresses_] Charlotte Cushman, Mrs. John Drew,
          Modjeska, Matilda Heron, Mme. Ponisi, Laura
          Keene, Fannie Davenport, Ada Rehan.

                         _GREAT BRITAIN_
          [_Actors_] Burbage, Betteron, Colley Cibber, Garrick,
          Macready, Edmund Kean, Tyrone Power,
          Samuel Phelps, Buckstone, Charles Macklin, Samuel
          Foote, Tate Wilkinson, Barry, Quinn, Henderson,
          John Philip Kemble, Robert Wilks, Thomas Sheridan,
          Henry Mossop, John Liston, William Betty,
          Henry Irving, Lawrence Irving.
          [_Actresses_] Nance Oldfield, Mrs. Betterton, Mrs.
          Mountfort, Mrs. Bracegirdle, Nell Gwynne, Mrs.
          Siddons, Peg Woffington, Fanny Kemble, Hannah
          Pritchard, Mrs. Abington, Mrs. Jordan, George
          Anne Bellamy, Helen Barry, Helen Faucit, Katherine
          Clive, Mrs. Farren.


          [_Tragedy_] Aeschylus, Choerilus, Pratinas, Phrynichus,
          Sophocles, Euripides, Carcinus, Chaeremon.
          [_Comedy_] Phormis [of Maenalus], Epicharmus,
          Susarion, Chionides, Aristophanes, Eupolis, Magnes,
          Philemon, Menander, Rhinthon, Apollodorus, Diphilus,

          [_Tragedy_] Livius Andronicus, Accius, Pacuvius,
          Asinius Pollis, Varius, Ovid, Seneca, Curiatius
          Maternus, J. Cæsar Strabo.
          [_Comedy_] Plautus, Terence, Ennius, Statius Caecilius,
          Lavinius, Naevius, Melissus, Afranius, Laberius,
          Pomponius, Atta.

          [_Tragedy_] Ariosto, Manzoni, Alfieri, Nicolini,
          [_Comedy_] Metastasio, Martelli, Maffei, Gozzi,
          Pindemonti, Monti, Flavio, Goldoni.

                       _SPAIN AND PORTUGAL_

          [_Spain_] Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Calderon, Alarcon,
          Gongora, Argensola, Moreto, de Hoz, Canizarez,
          Luzan, Huerta.
          [_Portugal_] Saa de Miranda, Gil Vincente, Ferreira,

          Etienne Jodelle, Garnier, Larivey, Montcrétien,
          Hardi, Viaud, Scudéri, Corneille, Boisrobert, Chevreau,
          Scarron, de Bergerac, Quinault, Molière,
          Boursault, Racine, Voltaire, l’Hermite, Rotrou,
          Crébillon, Le Sage, Beaumarchais, Longpierre, Fontenelli,
          La Motte, Legrand, Destouches, Marivaux,
          Sardou, Hugo, Dumas, Scribe, Zola, Legouvé, Augier,
          Halévy, Le Maitre, De Vigny.

          Hooft, Brederoo, Vondel, Vos, Goes, Pels, Asselijn,
          van Focquenbroch, Bilderdijk.

          Hans Sachs, Gryphius, Gottshed, Klopstock,
          Wieland, Herder, Kozebue, Hafner, Goethe, Schiller,
          Lessing, Novalis, Arnim, Hoffmann, Hrotsvitha of
          Gandersheim, Kleist, Grillparzer, Schlegel, Freytag,
          Heyse, Gutzkow, Wagner, Werner, Körner, Klingemann,
          Uhland, Chamisso, Arndt, Heine, Grabbe,
          Immermann, Weise, Grinunelohausen, Klinger, Ludwig,
          Laube, Holm, Giebel, Wildenbruch, Angengruber,
          Nestroy, Raimund.

          Holberg, Oehlenschläger, J. L. Heiberg, Bjornson,
          Wessel, Ewald, Hauch, Hostrup, Hertz, Paludan-Müller,
          Overskou, Ibsen, Lidner, Tegner, Runeberg,
          Blanche, Strindberg, Kielland, Lie.

          Sumarokoff, Catherine II, Von Viezin, Krilov,
          Astrovski, Pushkin, Gogol, Tolstoi, Tchekhof, Griboyedov.

          Royal Tyler, John Howard Payne, Boker, Longfellow,
          Wm. Young, N. P. Willis, Dion Boucicault,
          John Brougham, Augustin Daly, Steele MacKaye,
          Bronson Howard, James A. Herne, Clyde Fitch,
          William Vaughn Moody.

                         _GREAT BRITAIN_
          Beaumont, Fletcher, Jonson, Shirley, Greene,
          Peele, Webster, Ford, Massinger, Middleton, Heywood,
          Lyly, Marlowe, Shakespeare, Dekker, Marston:—Dryden,
          Wycherley, Congreve, Vanbrugh,
          Otway, Etheredge, d’Urfey, Farquhar, d’Avenant,
          Sedley, Lacy, Shadwell, Crowne, Steele, Addison,
          Rowe:—Goldsmith, Sheridan, Fielding, Shelley:—Knowles,
          Lytton, Robertson, Tennyson, Browning,
          Reade, Taylor, Wilde:—Phillips, Synge, Hankin,


       Information for Communities, Clubs, Societies, and Drama
              League Centres throughout the Country about

                          Mr. PERCY MACKAYE’S

                   “_CALIBAN: BY THE YELLOW SANDS_”

Doubleday, Page & Company have pleasure in announcing Mr. MacKaye’s
Masque, which in many respects has become the national tribute of the
New York Shakespeare Celebration, the Shakespeare National Memorial
Committee, and The Drama League of America for the anniversary of 1916.

The publication of the Masque has been hurried as much as possible
in order to give communities, societies, colleges, and Drama League
centres throughout the country an opportunity to read the text and thus
arrange their celebrations in harmony with the Masque.

The first performances of the Masque will be given by the New York
Shakespeare Celebration during the week of May 23d, when it will be
enacted out of doors, at night, in the City College Stadium adapted to
seat about 20,000 spectators. There several thousand citizens of New
York will take part in conjunction with a body of actors of national
repute. It will then be released for use by other communities or
societies on June 1st. Immediately after the close of the New York
performances, a professional company will take the Masque on the road
for presentation by them in conjunction with community and club groups
throughout the country. The professional company will fill the leading
parts and take with them a complete outfit of scenery and properties.
For full particulars, address the Chairman of the National Circuit
Committee, 736 Marquette Bldg., Chicago, Ill., or, Augustin Duncan, 50
West 12th St., New York City.

Amateur performances of the Masque may also be given after June
1st, without the aid of the professional company, by making proper
arrangements for securing permission. Full directions for amateur
performances, or for public readings where seats are sold, may be
had from Miss Alice Houston, National Headquarters, Drama League of
America, Chicago, Ill.

The Drama League of America strongly recommends to its centres the use
of the Masque as the special League reading for April. The text will be
available in two editions: Paper at 50 cents and Cloth at $1.25 or

The Drama League hopes to establish in the near future a _Pageant
Series_, similar to the _Play Series_, of which “Caliban” by Mr.
MacKaye would be the first volume.

                     _REMEMBER THESE POINTS_

             By Percy MacKaye. A National tribute to
             Shakespeare for 1916. Endorsed by the Drama
             League of America.

             New York, May 23d, by citizens and notable
             group of professional actors.

             June 1st. Acting rights may be secured as indicated

             Full particulars may be had by addressing Miss
             Alice M. Houston, Chairman Circuit Committee,
             Drama League of America, 1426 Forest Ave.,
             Evanston, Ill.

             Full particulars may be had by addressing Miss
             Clara Fitch, Chairman Shakespeare Tercentenary
             Committee, 736 Marquette Bldg., Chicago, Ill.

             For particulars address Miss Houston (as above).

             Paper edition 50 cents. Cloth edition $1.25 net.
             For sale everywhere at book shops or by Doubleday,
             Page & Company, Garden City, New York.

                             New York City
                 Shakespeare Tercentenary Celebration

                          CIVIC ORGANIZATION

               MISS MARY PORTER BEEGLE, _Chairman_

           MRS. AXEL O. IHLSENG, _Executive Secretary_
              10 EAST 43D STREET, NEW YORK CITY
                      Telephone, Murray Hill 9745

     _Supplementary Celebrations_        _Chairman of Finance_
  MISS FERN CLAWSON, _Vice-Chairman_     _Executive Chairman_
                                       MR. EVERARD THOMPSON
  _Advisory on Forms of Celebrations_    _Masque Committee Chairman_
  MISS FRANCES E. CLARKE                      _Music_
  MISS AZUBAH LATHAM                _Organizing Director of the Masque_
                                       Mr. GARNET HOLME
                                       Telephone, Greeley 1137

                          Board of Directors
           PROF. ALLAN ABBOTT           DR. GEORGE F. KUNZ
           CRANSTON BRENTON             MRS. PHILIP M. LYDIG
           JOHN COLLIER                 W. FORBES MORGAN, JR.
           MAX EASTMAB                  REV. DR. JOSEPH SILVERMAN
           MRS. SIMEON FORD             MR. M. J. STROOCK
                    MRS. J. NORMAN DE R. WHITEHOUSE


                             will present
    in the Lewisohn Stadium of the College of the City of New York
    on the nights of May 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 1916, at Eight O’clock

                        _The Community Masque_

                          By the Yellow Sands

                           PRODUCTION STAFF

                         _Author and Director_
                             PERCY MACKAYE

                   _Composer and Director of Music_
                            ARTHUR FARWELL

                             JOSEPH URBAN
                           RICHARD ORDYNSKI

                      _Designer of Inner Scenes_
                          ROBERT EDMOND JONES

                       _Director of Interludes_
                             GARNET HOLME

                        _Director of Costumes_
                        MRS. JOHN W. ALEXANDER

                         _Director of Dances_
                         MRS. ROBERT ANDERSON

                           _Staff Assistant_
                             HAZEL MACKAYE

  Office of the Director: 529 Marbridge Bldg. (34th St. & 6th Ave.);
  telephone, Greeley 1137.

  For particulars regarding Tickets, etc., communication should be made
  with the office of the Shakespeare Celebration, 10 East 43d St.,
  New York. Telephones, Murray Hill 9745 and 4158.

               For the New York Shakespeare Celebration
                    OTTO H. KAHN, _Chairman_.

             HERBERT ADAMS                 REV. JOHN HAYNES HOLMES
             DR. FELIX ADLER               FREDERIC C. HOWE
             JACOB P. ADLER                ARTHUR CURTISS JAMES
             JOHN G. AGAR                  MRS. PAUL KENNADAY
             ROBERT AITKEN                 DR. J. J. KINDRED
             WINTHROP AMES                 DARWIN P. KINGSLEY
             DONN BARBER                   LEE KOHNS
             JOSEPH BARONDESS              DR. GEORGE F. KUNZ
             MRS. AUGUST BELMONT           THOMAS W. LAMONT
             GUTZON BORGLUM                DR. HENRY M. LEIPSIGER
             HENRY BRUERE                  M. J. LAVELLE, V.G.
             ARNOLD BRUNNER                WALTER LIPPMANN
             ABRAHAM CAHAN                 CLARENCE H. MACKAY
             WILLIAM M. CHASE              EDWIN MARKHAM
             JOSEPH H. CHOATE              MISS HELEN MAROT
             PAUL D. CRAVATH               REV. HOWARD MELISH
             JOHN D. CRIMMINS              DR. APPLETON MORGAN
             GEORGE CROMWELL               J. P. MORGAN
             R. FULTON CUTTING             DR. HENRY MOSKOWITZ
             WALTER DAMROSCH               ADOLPH S. OCHS
             R. S. DAVIS                   RALPH PULITZER
             HENRY P. DAVISON              PERCY R. PYNE, 2d
             ROBT. W. DE FOREST            W. C. REICK
             MRS. CAMDEN C. DIKE           ELIHU ROOT
             A. J. DITTENHOEFER            EDWARD A. RUMELY
             CLEVELAND H. DODGE            JACOB M. SCHIFF
             CAROLINE B. DOW               MORTIMER L. SCHIFF
             FRANK L. DOWLING              JAMES SPEYER
             MAX EASTMAN                   FREDERIC A. STOKES
             SAMUEL H. EVINS               J. G. PHELPS STOKES
             JOHN H. FINLEY                JOSEF STRANSKY
             NED ARDEN FLOOD               OSCAR S. STRAUS
             DANIEL C. FRENCH              AUGUSTUS THOMAS
             JULES GUERIN                  MISS LILLIAN D. WALD
             NORMAN HAPGOOD                J. ALDEN WEIR
             COL. GEORGE HARVEY            F. W. WHITRIDGE
             TIMOTHY HEALY                 THOMAS W. WHITTLE
             A. BARTON HEPBURN             GEORGE WICKERSHAM
             MORRIS HILLQUIT               WILLIAM G. WILLCOX
             JAMES P. HOLLAND              DR. STEPHEN S. WISE
                                           H. J. WRIGHT


                        THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
                          GARDEN CITY, N. Y.


[1] The words of Shakespeare used in this Masque, are quoted from the
Tudor Edition of Shakespeare’s Works, edited by Neilson and Thorndike
(Macmillan). The stage directions and cuts, however, are not taken from
any edition, but have been made by me for purposes of the Inner Scenes.

[2] In this book these Inner Scenes are printed in black-faced type.

[3] This is the motive of Mr. Robert Edmond Jones’ cover design for
this volume.

[4] An outline of suggestions on this subject I published in a volume,
“The Civic Theatre, in Relation to the Redemption of Leisure” [1912].
Further ideas and their applications are contained in the prefaces and
dramatic texts of my Bird Masque “Sanctuary,” “Saint Louis: A Civic
Masque,” and “The New Citizenship,” a Civic Ritual.

[5] The outgoing cost of the Saint Louis production was $122,000; the
income $139,000. The balance of $17,000 has been devoted to a fund for
civic art. The cost of producing a single play by Sophocles at Athens
was $500,000.

[6] Page 71, on Constructive Leisure (Mitchell Kennerley, 1912).

[7] New York, 1915, Macmillan.

[8] See Appendix, page 154.

[9] The Masque Proper consists of the Prologue and Three Acts, without
the Inner Scenes and the Epilogue and Interludes.

[10] Visualized by a Super-puppet.

[11] Visualized by an idol.

[12] See Appendix: Pages 207-216.

[13] The more detailed description of this Interlude is given in the
Appendix, pages 162 to 183.


    “The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne,
     Burn’d on the water: the poop was beaten gold;
     Purple the sails, and so perfumed that
     The winds were love-sick with them. The oars were silver,
     Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke.... For her own person,
     It beggar’d all description: she did lie
     In her pavilion—cloth-of-gold of tissue—
     O’er-picturing that Venus where we see
     The fancy out-work nature. On each side her
     Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,
     With diverse-color’d fans, whose wind did seem
     To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool....
     Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides,
     So many mermaids, tended her i’ the eyes,
     And made their bends adornings. At the helm
     A seeming mermaid steers; the silken tackle
     Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands,
     That yarely frame the office. From the barge
     A strange invisible perfume hits the sense
     Of the adjacent wharfs.”
                   —[_Antony and Cleopatra_: II, 2. Shakespeare.]

The charm and splendor of this description applies here only to the
beauty of the barge and those it bears: otherwise Cleopatra and her
attendants are, in their appearance, distraught and fearful, and the
barge shows signs of recent perilous escape from the scene of Antony’s
sea-battle with Octavius Cæsar.

Being here conceived as a plastic vision in the mind of Prospero,
this Inner Scene—an excerpt from Act III, Scene XI, of Shakespeare’s
play—has, by dramatic license appropriate to this masque, been laid in
a scene suggested by the above description of the barge.

[15] During this scene, Caliban—watching intently—slides from the steps
of the throne and crawls slowly forward on his stomach to the centre,
where he lies prone, with head lifted—his body pointed toward the Inner
stage—kicking at times his lower legs [from the knees] in the air.

[16] For fuller description of this Interlude, see Appendix, pages

[17] From Shakespeare’s “King Henry the Eighth,” Act I, Scene 1.

[18] From Shakespeare’s “King Henry the Eighth,” Act I, Scene 1.

[19] See Appendix, pages 196-204, for more detailed description.

[20] For details of these Epilogue groups, see Appendix, pages 205-216.

[21] The plan for this India episode is based on a ritual scene of the
ancient Hindu drama “Shakuntala,” by Kalidasa, translated by Garnet
Holme and Arthur W. Ryder, and recently produced by the authors in
California. The translation is published by University of California
Press, Berkeley, 1914. Those communities that may desire to include
this Action in their local festivals should communicate with Mr. Garnet
Holme, care of The Shakespeare Celebration, 10 East 43rd Street, New
York City.

[22] The revolving of the disk, of course, is apparent only, not real.
Actually, the disk remains motionless; it appears to revolve because of
the motion of the Priests around it.

[23] See “Kings and Gods of Egypt,” Alexandre Moret; pp. 69-108.

[24] Similarly before each of the Actions of each Interlude, Prospero
makes a brief explanatory comment to Ariel (and thus to the audience).

[25] The Choregus was the Producer, usually a man of great wealth.

[26] In one hand Pantomimus carries a wand resembling a caduceus, but
differing from that of Mercury in that the heads of the twining snakes
are carved as little masks of comedy, and the tip of the wand, to which
the flying wings are affixed, is the shining disk of a mirror, into
which at times Pantomimus peers quaintly at his reflection.

[27] The Pantomime is adapted from a Roman Interlude by the author in
his drama “Sappho and Phaon.”

[28] This Theme inheres in an excerpt from Shakespeare’s “King Henry
VIII,” Act I, Scene I, quoted by Ariel as Prologue to the Sixth Inner
Scene of the Masque, for which the actual dialogue of no Shakespeare
Scene dealing with France appears so appropriate for the Masque’s uses
as a pantomime based on this excerpt from Henry VIII.

[29] The words _Winter_ and _Spring_ refer to the respective Groups.

[30] The water is represented by the blue ground, beyond the verge of
the Yellow Sands.

[31] Here the play-actors enact a scene from the old play of “Noah’s

[32] The Action here described, like that of all the preceding
Interludes, is simply a preliminary outline, subject to modification
and development at rehearsals.

[33] With this number several hundred of the Interlude participants and
Masque figurants are to be correlated in the final ensemble.

Transcriber’s Notes:

  Underscores “_” before and after a word or phrase indicate _italics_
    in the original text.
  Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals.
  Illustrations have been moved so they do not break up paragraphs.
  Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations
    in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.

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to Doctrine Publishing's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a
large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the use of
public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Keep it legal -  Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for
ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just because
we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States,
that the work is also in the public domain for users in other countries.
Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we
can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of any specific book is
allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Doctrine Publishing
ISYS search  means it can be used in any manner anywhere in the world.
Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe.

About ISYS® Search Software
Established in 1988, ISYS Search Software is a global supplier of enterprise
search solutions for business and government.  The company's award-winning
software suite offers a broad range of search, navigation and discovery
solutions for desktop search, intranet search, SharePoint search and embedded
search applications.  ISYS has been deployed by thousands of organizations
operating in a variety of industries, including government, legal, law
enforcement, financial services, healthcare and recruitment.