Capulchard. [Resuming his former position.] Crone. [Crossing.] To a palace that's dark. I know not: I am blind, stone blind. Woman. [Continuing her song.] White birds on the white-branched, motionless trees, Capulchard. Thou art old: read the song. She is young. When it's past and the staff seeks no light o' the moon. Capulchard. Frail withered leaf-the first November wind [Exit the Crone, who, upon reaching the edge of the decoration, becomes inert and sinks down limply behind the screen.] The song: full-throated, dark, and passionate. Her lover?—No, we'll save the pencil-stroke. Woman. [Continuing her song.] My beloved awaiting me, swift toward the spring Capulchard. There is silence. Woman. The kiss that I bring [Capulchard has pushed the Crone back. He now lifts the Woman, clad in a dark mantle edged with white, and places her at the edge of the decoration. She enters.] Grotesques The kiss-to the mocking-voiced echoes I sing. [An interval. To herself, in a slow monotonous voice.] Warm path by the stream, thou art chill to-night. Phantom shadows-weave [She glides off, right, and sinks down inert.] Capulchard. Her voice glides past Like it was she-dark, sinuous delight. Expressive outline bound her beauty fast. Each as you will, the sequence unenslaved. And yet, why hunt your pleasure to its death? Black background, disc of the moon: create- -a Sprite. Whose presence makes this wood an eerie place. [He goes right and, lifting the Sprite, a curious black and white figure, brings it to the edge of the decoration.] There's little trick to the supernatural. Sprite. Tiptoe a-tread, through the wood, by the brook, the Sprite enters-oh, ho! Dance, crinkled stream! Ha!-a dragon-fly poised upon air! [Blows.] Begone. [Reflectively.] It is night. [Bowing.] Madame Owl, Hoot! to-whoo! Sprite. Brisk maker of shadows, clown moon! [He stands grimacing at it; then, upon a gesture from Capulchard, he begins with arms and fingers a shadow-dance, rapid and spontaneous but wholly conventionalized. There are of course no shadows.] Quick, clown moon-make them faster! [Capulchard abruptly stops him on a posture at the extreme left.] Capulchard. The dance proceeds, conventioned in a pose. Yet the design wants counterbalance. Here to the right I'll place the Girl-motive. [He lifts the Girl from the receptacle, right, and places her at the edge of the decoration, giving her at the same time a conventionalized symbol representing a bird. She enters, in the controlled and exaggerated manner characteristic of the grotesques, her movements wholly conventionalized and idyllic. Her costume, predominantly white, remains constant through all the episodes. Capulchard, at once developing the possibilities of the design, directs the notice of the Sprite to her.] Girl. [To herself, motionless.] Who am I that come, Caressing tenderly the sign of bird? A Girl, in white, alone, beside the pattern brook I wander without fear, of fear not having heard. Capulchard. Meanwhile— Girl. Upon this sward beneath these trees I rest, and say: Grotesques Sweet bird, here bathe your wings where the pure white Capulchard. I gave her that phrase out of character. She looks Girl. [Seeing the Sprite, who stands hungrily erect poised to leap towards her. She is struck motionless.] 'Neath the moon Capulchard. [Holding them apart in a pause which he carefully guards.] Note How sensitively to the artist's will, Even the minutest shade, the figures drawn Respond. Though tense the moment, yet the crux Design her as if thralled by fantasy, Bound by the spell of her own wayward longing. . . [Her expression changes from fear to eagerness. Capulchard places on her robe one or two conventionalized black leaves. He then extricates the Man from among the Grotesques, left, gives him a bow, and places him at the edge of the decoration. Capulchard steps back, almost invisible against the wood.] Man. With tread firm and taut deep through this strange wood fearless come I, Hunter of mighty beasts, by prowess conqueror, else slain. One arrow unsped yet left sole in my quiver. Capulchard. [Designing, as she cowers from the Man.] But she, who shuns release from love of dreams- Man. Are you a mortal maiden that dread less Capulchard. [Thoughtfully, as the Man turns to flee.] His movement outward draws discordant line; Courage would make the rhythm more compact. Stand, therefore! Man. [Made to assume toward the Girl an attitude of protection which would surmount his own fear.] Therefore, I stand. Capulchard. His courage wakens love. |