PLAYS

BY

LEONID ANDREYEFF

Leonid Andreyeff

PLAYS

BY
LEONID ANDREYEFF

THE BLACK MASKERS
THE LIFE OF MAN
THE SABINE WOMEN

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY
CLARENCE L. MEADER AND FRED NEWTON SCOTT

WITH AN INTRODUCTORY ESSAY BY
V. V. BRUSYANIN

AUTHORISED EDITION

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1923

COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS

Printed in the United States of America

Published February, 1915

PREFACE

The present versions of “The Life of Man” and “The Black Maskers” are based respectively on the texts printed in the seventh and tenth volumes of the “Collected Works” of Andreyeff, published by the Prosveshchenie Company, of Petrograd; the version of “The Sabine Women” is based on the Russian text published by J. Ladyschnikow, in Berlin.

The spelling Andreyeff employed in this volume is adopted to secure conformity with the spelling Tchekoff adopted in the companion volume “Plays by Tchekoff.” A more scientific transliteration would be Andreev.

The translators desire to express their appreciation of the courtesy of the author in extending to them permission to translate the three plays included in this volume, as well as other dramas, and also to acknowledge with gratitude the aid received from Mr. Leonid Borisovich Moiseyeff, of Tomsk, Siberia.

THE TRANSLATORS.

ANN ARBOR, MICH., October, 1914.

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

The life of Leonid Nikolaivich Andreyeff has been uneventful. He was born on August 9, 1871, in the city of Orel, which is situated about two hundred miles south of Moscow, in the country of the Great Russians. The father, whose income was always small, died while Andreyeff was a student in the city high school. From that time until his graduation from the law department of Moscow University, at the age of twenty-six, Andreyeff suffered greatly from lack of means, and three times he was led by discouragement to attempt suicide. In childhood and youth he manifested some aptitude for drawing and painting. Indeed, he supported himself in part during his university career in Petrograd and Moscow by painting portraits, but, owing to lack of proper instruction, such endowments as he possessed in this line remained undeveloped. From childhood he was an insatiable reader, and at an early age he had read all the Russian classics and such foreign authors as had been translated into his native tongue. In 1897 he attempted the practice of law, but, meeting with no success and apparently possessing no aptitude for the profession, he turned to newspaper reporting and later to feuilleton writing for the Moscow Courier. A number of these early sketches are republished in collected editions of his works. Since 1898 he has devoted himself exclusively to literature, residing first in Moscow and later in Petrograd. In 1906, finding the distractions of a large city too serious an impediment to his literary work, he built a country home on a picturesque site at Terioki, a much-frequented summer resort in Finland. As Terioki is only thirty miles by rail from Petrograd, Andreyeff here enjoys to a large extent the advantages of both country and city. Andreyeff has steadily refused to take an active part in the political life of his day and has never allied himself with any party, believing that party creeds and dogmas are incompatible with the freedom of art.

Very near the beginning of Andreyeff’s literary career one of his stories attracted the attention of Gorki, who was at that time at the height of his fame, and who lent Andreyeff much encouragement and assistance. In 1901 Andreyeff suddenly became famous through the publication of a small volume of stories which dealt with certain vital problems of Russian society. Since that time his writings have been exceedingly popular. His plays have been enthusiastically received and have had long runs in the theatres, while the printed editions of his works have been rapidly exhausted. An edition of eighteen thousand copies of “King Hunger,” for example, was sold out in a single day. Notwithstanding the intense interest with which his writings have been received, it has been his lot to awaken some resentment and even indignation, and to call forth storms of adverse criticism in some quarters. In this respect his fate has been the fate of Tolstoi and most other great Russian writers, and the opposition to him is accounted for in the same manner. As a critic of society Andreyeff is interested not in the outer events of life, but in character. Consequently his writings are devoted exclusively to the revelation of certain qualities of men’s minds and hearts. His pictures of the evils of Russian society are so vivid and the implied censures on society so severe that, although his merits have been fully and cheerfully acknowledged by the reading public as a whole, a certain portion of the public, blinded by passion or prejudice, refuse even to admit the existence of the perverted mental states which Andreyeff, as a great artist and prophet, has seen and described. Such impassioned attacks, however, will be regarded by the sober-minded as an indication of the clearness of his vision, and as a tribute to his marvellous descriptive powers.

THE SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OF ANDREYEFF

“THE LIFE OF MAN,” “THE BLACK MASKERS,” “THE SABINE WOMEN”[1]

Leonid Andreyeff, as a dramatist, is the most interesting product of contemporary Russian literature. Abandoning the older traditions that prevailed from Ostrovski[2] to Tolstoi, and passing by the school of Tchekoff,[3] he brought to the theatre a unique form of art, the rich possibilities of which he is still developing. In 1913 Andreyeff published in the theatrical journal Maski a “Letter on the Theatre.”[4] This is a “confession of faith,” and describes in detail its author’s conception not only of the theatre of the past but also of the theatre of the future, to the latter of which he gives the new name “panpsyche.”[5] Let us see what this theatre panpsyche is, and how Andreyeff applies his theory to his dramatic productions.

With that spirit of independence which has characterised all great Russian writers, Andreyeff, disregarding long-accepted traditions even now generally regarded as essential, asks point-blank the heretical question: “Is action, in the accepted sense of movements and visible achievements on the stage, necessary to the theatre?” In his opinion it is not necessary, inasmuch as modern life itself in its most tragic aspects tends to withdraw farther and farther from external activities and deeper and deeper into the recesses of the soul, into the silence and outward calm that characterises mental life. From this answer to his question one may see how far the theatre panpsyche will depart from the older theatre of Shakespeare, Sardou, Dumas, and other foreign dramatists, and even from the Russian schools that developed out of Ostrovski’s art.[6] In this respect Andreyeff is closely akin to Maeterlinck, in whose plays dramatic collisions are not marked by external action, but the problems that characterise the life of the soul, with its premonitions, its yearnings, and searchings, are brought in concrete form before the footlights.

To illustrate his views, Andreyeff draws an interesting contrast between the lives of two men of widely different ages and widely divergent ethical views, Benvenuto Cellini and Friedrich Nietzsche. In reading the memoirs of Cellini, Andreyeff was struck by the large number of events in the life of the mediæval artist and adventurer. “How many escapes, murders, surprises, losses and unexpected discoveries, loves and enmities!” exclaims Andreyeff. “Cellini encounters more events in a short walk from his home to the outskirts of the city than the average modern man does in his entire life. Cellini’s life was a counterpart of the life of his day, with its brigands, monks, dukes, swords, and mandolins. In those days interest attached only to a life that was full of events, continually active and achieving, whereas a life of inactivity was like a clod lying by the roadside, of which there is nothing notable to be said. Cellini’s life is a personification of the older theatre. Read any of the older dramatists, observe any contemporary actor of the older school, and you will realise how much there is of Cellini in them.”

In contrast with this, Andreyeff conceives the new theatre as the place for the bodying forth of such intensely dramatic experiences as those of Nietzsche. “Where in Nietzsche’s life,” asks Andreyeff, “are there events, activities, physical achievements? In his early manhood, while he was a Prussian soldier, and was still to a certain extent a man of action, he was in the least degree a dramatist. The real drama of his life begins just at the time when his life withdraws into the silence and inactivity of the study. It is there that we find the painful re-evaluation of all values, the tragical struggle, the break with Wagner, and the charming Zarathustra!”

The contemporary drama, says Andreyeff, has shown itself powerless to represent the drama of Nietzsche. In the presence of the spiritual and intellectual conflict it is speechless. “Humbly bowing before the immutable law of action, the contemporary drama declines to represent—indeed, cannot represent for us—a Nietzsche, who is so near, so important, so essential to our lives, but continues to offer us in profusion empty, antiquated, and unnecessary Cellinis, with their paraphernalia of tin swords, etc.” Andreyeff explains the crisis of the obsolete theatre of to-day by the fact that life itself has withdrawn into the inner recesses of the soul, whereas the theatre has paused at the threshold of these new and profound psychological experiences and intellectual strivings—the struggle of man’s thoughts with man—and has never thrown open the door that leads to them.

In anticipation of the objections of his critics, Andreyeff asserts that he does not in the least mean that events have ceased to occur, that people have ceased to act, or that history has ceased its forward movement. The chronicle of current events is still sufficiently replete with suicides, strife, and war, but all these events in their outward aspects have fallen in dramatic value. Life has become more psychological. In the place of the older passions and the traditional heroes of the drama, love and hunger, there has arisen a new protagonist, the intellect. Not love, nor hunger, nor ambition, but thought in its sufferings, joys, and struggles, is the true hero of the life of to-day. To it therefore is due the first place in the drama. Indeed, Andreyeff has gone so far as to entitle his last drama “Thought”; and if we examine into the plays which he wrote at the beginning of his dramatic career, “The Life of Man,” and “The Black Maskers,” we shall find in them the same content.

Man, who is the hero of “The Life of Man,” and Lorenzo, the principal character in “The Black Maskers,” are both victims of the tragedy of their intellect, of their obstinate questionings in the realm of thought, and their disenchantments in the sphere of the emotions—the love of life, the love of people, the love of themselves. In “The Life of Man” some fate, embodied in the Being in Grey, held in his hands the candle, the emblem of life, and directed the thoughts of Man from behind his mysterious veil. Herein lies the whole tragedy of Man and Lorenzo. From poverty and sorrow Man rises to wealth and happiness, and it would appear that with such powerful spiritual weapons as the intellect and the soul he might easily fortify his position. However, the Being in Grey turns out to be stronger than Man, with his intellect and soul, with his thoughts and his conduct of life. Herein lies the drama of Man, whose life has become an “inner” life, while the outward events become non-essential, mere unavoidable details. Duke Lorenzo was also strong as far as the external factors of wealth and power were concerned. Yet his restless thoughts, and in particular the one persistently recurring thought that he was not Duke Lorenzo, but only the son of his mother and a stable-man, gave rise to an inner, spiritual drama, which overwhelmed the man Lorenzo who is hidden behind the duke Lorenzo. Lorenzo thus slew his double, but he did not come out victorious over the Being in Grey. Nothing in his life was changed for the better. In his mind people took on the appearance of maskers, of being other than they really were; all objects in the world were masked and false; even his own thoughts became disguised in masks. The whole world was merely the delusion of Duke Lorenzo, who moved about the earth in an eternal mask. Both Man and Lorenzo are the victims not of outward conditions, but of their own inner experiences.

It is only on the basis of this general theory of the modern theatre that we can understand either “The Life of Man” or “The Black Maskers.” But once having accepted this theory we see how baseless are the contentions of Andreyeff’s critics. They condemn the external form of such plays as “The Life of Man,” which Russian society had universally understood, appreciated, and approved. In framing a play with a new kind of content, Andreyeff instinctively selected new outer forms to correspond. These forms, though intelligible to the public, were incomprehensible to the critics, reared, as they have been for decades, on the dramatic forms of Ostrovski’s school.

Consistent with the alterations that have taken place in the drama, Andreyeff calls the old theatre the theatre of “make-believe,” as distinguished from the theatre panpsyche, which he calls the theatre of the truth. He goes even farther and affirms that the motto of all future art will be “truth in art.” When the modern “psychological” novelist or dramatist brings his heroes on the stage, are they the product of the “play of his fancy”? asks Andreyeff. “No,” he replies, “he experiences them, lives them, creates them, fashions them, any word you choose; only do not use the word ‘play.’” For play is something entirely different and distinct from the artistic process of creating new beings, which is the basis of the dramatist-psychologist’s art. Play is pretence; and the more refined, cunning, and beautiful, the better it is as play: but psychological creating is truth; and the plainer, the more sincere, the more severe it is, and the farther it is removed from pretence, so much greater will be its artistic value.

“The Life of Man,”[7] when staged, was condemned by the critics on the ground of excessive symbolism and allegory.[8] The author, paying as he did scant heed to the details of daily life that surround the hero of the play and his wife, concentrated all his attention on the conception of Man and the life of Man. The symbolism employed is very old and familiar—patent, in fact—and is a minor element in the drama. As a matter of fact, this method of picturing human life has long been current among the masses of the Russian people. They picture life either as a candle which blazes up through some mysterious power and finally goes out, or in the form of steps, represented in a crudely drawn picture, in which man is depicted from birth till death. In the first half of life—till middle age—he mounts to the summit, then begins to descend the stairs, and finally he reaches old age and his predestined end—death. It is this crude popular conception that Andreyeff takes as the basis of his symbolism; and this selection of a basal motive from the life of the common people is that very truth in art of which Andreyeff speaks, for behind this picture lies the deeply rooted faith of the people in life, and in Fate as the guide of life.

The Man whom Andreyeff depicts is an extreme individualist whose whole life is centred upon himself and his own interests, who judges all other persons and all things from the point of view of his own personality. He has made himself the centre of the universe. Nor in this case is fate a mere subjective principle holding sway over man. It is something entirely different. Professor Reisner, in his work entitled “Andreyeff and His Philosophy of Life,” says on this point: “Once man has become the foundation of social life, all connecting boundaries and points of contact heretofore existing between him and nature disappear. He is not merely left in isolation, but about him is formed a desert—a vast, social chasm, and the great principle called the law of life now has no means of coming into contact with the naked individual. When this stage has been reached, principles of law and order can find justification only from the point of view of the individual. As soon as the individual has become the unit of society, and the centre of all interests, the aims of this unit must be accepted by it as the aims of the universe, its reason must be accepted as the world reason, and with it the fate of the universe is born and perishes. But if the individual cannot thus establish a direct bond between his personal existence and the law of nature, there results the great tragedy: Personality renounces the world.”

Man, the hero of “The Life of Man,” failed from the very first to establish this bond. In his earlier years of poverty he found the meaning of life in the struggle for existence, in dreams of wealth, distinction, and fame. He dreamed even of becoming recognised as a genius. But his dreams all ended in selfish visions of a wonderful villa on the Norwegian coast, where on stormy winter nights he and his wife might find rest and repose in the cheery warmth of the huge fireplace “that burned whole logs.” In the ball of Man the hero reaches the summit of life. Observe the feeling of dignified self-importance with which Man enters the presence of his guests, his wife leaning upon his arm. He is rich and famous. His guests are filled with admiration for the wealth and luxury of his life, and for his wide-spread fame. But listen! The strains of the polka, hollow and empty, the insipid, soulless dance of the guests and their petty remarks reveal all the tragedy of the petty and empty life of this richest and most famous of men—the profound tragedy that lies in the solitude of Man and in the solitude of each and every one of his guests. The egoistic laws of life followed by the Friends and the Enemies of Man hang like a pall over the empty but ominous ball. Like evil forebodings on the eve of death, they reveal all the vanity of human life. In the ball of Man, which sums up the entire life of both Man and his guests, one does not feel the presence of the great cosmic bond between man and the laws of the universe; but the laws that guide the base Friends and Enemies of Man have brought together here the doomed, and among them the chief of the doomed, Man himself, proud, noted, and wealthy; while in the background, seeming to be a part even of the grey wall, is the Being in Grey (whether God, Fate, or the Devil, Man himself knows not), invisible and frightful in his coldness and indifference, following persistently every step of Man’s life—the Being in Grey, in whose hand is burning—burning out—the candle that symbolises the meaning of the life of this man who has failed to establish a bond between his personal existence and the laws of nature. The beginning and the end of his life are concealed in darkness. “Dragged on irresistibly by time, he will tread inevitably all the steps of human life, upward toward its summit and downward to its end.”[9] Still more definitely the Being in Grey speaks of the meaning of the life of Man: “Limited in vision, he will not see the step to which his unsure foot is already raising him. Limited in knowledge, he will never know what the coming day or hour or moment is bringing to him. And in his blind ignorance, worn by apprehensions, harassed by hopes and fears, he will complete submissively the iron round of destiny.”

The “iron round of destiny” is the tragedy of Man, conditioned by the strife between the intellect and the emotions, with its attendant sufferings and joys in the case of a man whose strivings toward harmony and order are doomed to clash with the primeval chaos.[10]

The tragedy of Lorenzo in “The Black Maskers” is of the same sort. “My soul is an enchanted castle. When the sun shines into the lofty windows, with its golden rays it weaves golden dreams. When the sad moon looks into the misty windows, in its silvery beams are silvery dreams,” says Lorenzo of his own inner experiences. Yet in the midst of his dreams Lorenzo continually asks the question: “Who laughs? Who laughs so gently at the sorrowful life of Lorenzo?” Such were also the dreams of Man and his wife, when their distress was soothed for a moment by prayer, and when for a time they had faith in the Being in Grey. “Man, flattered by his hopes, has fallen into a deep and grateful sleep.... He dreams that he is riding with his son in a white boat over a beautiful smooth river.... He hears the reeds rustle as they part before the boat. He is filled with joy and he fancies that he is blessed. All Man’s emotions are deceiving him. But suddenly he becomes restless. The terrible truth, penetrating the dense veil of his dreams, has seared his thought: ‘Why is your golden hair cut so short, my boy; why is it?’ ‘My head ached, father, and that is why my hair was cut so short.’ And, again deceived, man is happy, and he sees the blue sky and hears the reeds rustling as they part.”[11] At the very moment when in sleep his thoughts joyously take wing, misfortune draws close to him; while he sleeps and in his visions finds rest and respite from the iron round of destiny, his son is already dead; so awaking from his dreams he has no course left but to curse the Being in Grey. Of this Being Man begs not for mercy or for pity, but “only for justice.” To this same being Lorenzo turns with the prayer: “Who laughs? Who laughs so frightfully at the insane Lorenzo? Have pity on me, O Monarch! My soul is filled with terror! O Monarch, O Lord of the World!—Satan!” Man asks no longer for mercy, but only for justice; Lorenzo still believes in mercy, and asks for pity. Why the difference? Is not the tragedy of their lives the same? The author himself answers the question by the entire subject-matter of these similar yet different plays. The soul of Man, though tortured, still remains intact in the presence of the Being in Grey, and he perishes cursing the blind power of Fate; but the soul of Lorenzo is rent in twain and his tragedy is the more intense, because Fate, Destiny, God, or the devil is transformed from a vague primordial being into the double of the duke Lorenzo. In “The Life of Man” fate appears in the form of an objective principle, a power outside of man; in “The Black Maskers” this same fate has entered, as it were, into the flesh and blood of Lorenzo, has become a part of his essence, that is, it has become subjective in the fullest sense of the word. Lorenzo considered his life good and beautiful, but having invited his masked guests to his ball he discovered the falseness of his life. In the place of one wife he saw three; in the place of one Duke Lorenzo he suddenly encountered at the ball his double. Then appeared also the black maskers, the personification of the darkness of life and the mysterious dark instincts of man. At this point began a new life for Lorenzo, and he himself became new, that is, demented. With his doubt as to his parentage—whether he was the son of his father or of a filthy stable-man, his mother’s paramour—began the dark, insane life of Lorenzo, and he perished in darkness and was burned in his castle, which was set on fire by the jester.

In the midst of the storm of adverse criticism—including such characterisation as “unheard-of horrors,” “disregard of real life,” “excessive symbolism”—that greeted the first appearance of “The Black Maskers” at the theatre of Komisarzhevskaia, in 1908, very few critics succeeded in making any close approach to a true interpretation of the drama, either in its subject-matter or its form. Yet all were intensely interested, and throngs of “interviewers” made their way to Andreyeff, at his country home in Finland, to learn what he intended in this drama to represent. The author, of course, found it impossible to explain his own creation, but eagerly discussed the symbolic form of this and other plays. “Critics are a strange people,” said Andreyeff to one of his interviewers. “They wonder why I write certain things in a peculiar style. The explanation is very simple: every work should be written in the style which it demands. ‘King Hunger’ could not be written without symbolism; ‘The Seven who were Hanged’ could be written only in realistic tones. Tchekoff—the dear, delightful, sensitive Tchekoff, who was always so cautious and considerate in his utterances—finding himself once in a circle of intimate friends and hearing the name of Ibsen mentioned, blurted out: ‘Ibsen’s a fool!’ If Tchekoff did not understand Ibsen’s symbolism, could not grasp it, shall I be offended when the critics assail my writings? Eleven years have past since I published my first story. For ten years I have written as I felt. I am not the slave of either symbolism or realism, but they are my servants—now the one, now the other, according to my theme. In the future also I must continue to write as I am able.” Not confining himself to the elucidation of the outer forms of his dramas, Andreyeff gives a direct key to the understanding of his “Black Maskers” in “My Diary,” published in 1908, two or three months before the writing of “The Black Maskers.” The hero of that sketch, an old man who has been immured in a prison since early manhood, writes in his diary: “Every man, as I afterward came to see and understand, was like that rich and distinguished gentleman who arranged a gorgeous masquerade in his castle and illuminated his castle with lights; and thither came from far and wide strange masks, whom he welcomed with courteous greetings, though ever with the vain inquiry: ‘Who are you?’ And new masks arrived ever stranger and more horrible.” To this description the prisoner adds, as a foot-note to his diary: “The castle is the soul; the lord of the castle is man, the master of the soul; the strange, black maskers are the powers whose field of action is the soul of man, and whose mysterious nature he can never fathom.” These beings bring into the soul darkness and death, extinguishing the light of life. The “simple” maskers, the guests of Lorenzo, are ordinary people; yet even these are transformed and lose their real semblances and, like the black maskers, they become mysterious, incomprehensible, and terrifying to Lorenzo, who fails to understand them as he fails to understand his own soul. Lorenzo’s mind becomes clouded, his own soul becomes repulsive to him, he seems strange to himself. Though he longs to accept his own soul as his own, yet the ugliness, the repulsiveness, of that which he sees within it checks his resolve to do so, and his soul becomes two souls—Lorenzo becomes two Lorenzos. Before him he sees his double—his horrible, disgusting, false double—and incensed with anger he draws his sword and slays it. Recall the uncanny scene in which the servants, friends, and wife of Lorenzo come to bid farewell to the remains of the dead duke, while the duke himself—his other half—stands in the shadow at the head of the bier and observes how they greet the cold corpse of himself. The duality of soul, the duality of personality, has led to the final tragedy of the duke—insanity.

But at this point the author willed that a new transformation of Lorenzo should occur. When the castle, fired by Ecco, the jester, is in flames, Lorenzo, falling upon his knees, calls upon all present to pay homage to the being who is now revealed to his soul, darkened though it be by insanity. “Uncover, gentlemen; it is the Lord God, the Ruler of heaven and earth. On your knees, knights and ladies!” But one conclusion can logically be drawn. Lorenzo, passing through this duality of personality and slaying his double, i. e., renouncing the dark and evil elements of his soul, has attained to the knowledge of God and perishes at the moment of attainment.

And the general inference to be drawn from the two plays? Man in Andreyeff’s view is in the hands of fate; whether it appears as the effect upon him of his environment, or manifests itself in the joys, sorrows, temptations, doubts, and struggles of man with his rejoicing, sorrowing, aspiring, doubting, struggling soul. Man is, as it were, condemned to inevitable suffering, and only through suffering can he hope to attain to perfection. Such was the case of Duke Lorenzo, whose death brought him a vision of God. In this sense Andreyeff resembles Tolstoi and Dostoevski. The former called upon man to achieve perfection through suffering; the latter admonished man to reject the problems of personality for the sake of perfection. But Andreyeff differs from both Tolstoi and Dostoevski. Recall how the hero of “The Life of Man,” despairing of his personal welfare, curses the invisible Being who directs the life of man: “I know not who you are, God, the devil, Fate, or Life, but I curse you! I curse all that you have given me! I curse the day on which I was born! I curse the day on which I shall die! I curse my whole life, my joys and my grief! I curse myself! I curse my eyes, my ears, my tongue! I curse my heart, my head! And I hurl all back into your cruel face, senseless Fate! Be accursed, be accursed forever! Through my curse I rise victorious above you. What more can you do with me? Hurl me upon the ground; yes, hurl me down! I shall only laugh and cry out: ‘Be accursed!’ ... Over the head of the woman you have offended, over the body of the boy whom you have killed, I hurl upon you the curse of Man.” Duke Lorenzo, whose timid soul is rent in twain, calls upon us to worship God; Man, whose soul is still intact and unreconciled, curses him who directs both birth and death. Such are the fundamental differences between the two plays.

The third play included in the present volume differs markedly from the other two in its form, its content, and its purpose as conceived by Andreyeff. It transports the author from the field of the universal problems of life to the particular conditions of contemporary political life in Russia. It is a satire on the Constitutional-Democratic party. This party is not “legalised” in Russia, and is considered an opposition party both in the Duma and in the country at large. Notwithstanding their repute, however, the “Kadets,” as they are called for short, being composed of individuals representing both progressive and conservative elements of society, have a mixed character, which serves to distinguish them from both the socialistic and the populistic parties. Naturally this dual character is clearly reflected in their political activities.

Assuming that in general the subject-matter of the play will be clear to the reader, we will limit ourselves to a few explanations that will enable the reader to appreciate the keenness of Andreyeff’s satire. The crude Romans, the abductors of the fair Sabine women, represent the Russian administration of the period of the reaction. The Sabine women are the constitutional “promises” wrung from the government by the revolution of 1905 and 1906. The Sabine husbands represent the Constitutional-Democratic party, who strive by strictly legal methods to preserve these promised constitutional guarantees. The political programme of the Kadets is especially satirised in the second act, at the point when the injured husbands are preparing to march on Rome to liberate their wives. Ancus Martius instructs them to march by taking two steps forward and one step backward. The two forward steps are designed to indicate “the unquenchable fire of our stormy souls, the firm will, the irresistible advance. The step backward symbolises the step of reason, the step of experience and the mature mind.... In taking it we maintain a close bond with tradition, with our ancestors, with our great past.” This is the “progressive-conservative” programme of the Kadets. They failed to gain a victory over their political opponents; or, if they did win a victory, it was just such a victory as that won by the Sabines over the Romans.

In concluding, let us remind the reader that our interpretation of these three plays has been very brief, as has been also our exposition of Andreyeff’s views on the theatre. We have set forth but a small fraction of Andreyeff’s rich contributions to Russian social thought. Above all, the reader should understand that Andreyeff paints Russian life in true colours, and to know his works is to know contemporary Russia.

V. V. BRUSYANIN.

PETROGRAD, October, 1914.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Since Mr. Brusyanin, the author of this introductory essay, is a literary critic of note, and at the same time a personal friend of Andreyeff, the essay has the unique value of being an authoritative statement of Andreyeff’s own views.

[2] Ostrovski is regarded as the founder of the modern realistic drama in Russia. His literary career extended from 1850 to 1886.

[3] It is interesting to note that the plays of Andreyeff were staged by the same Moscow theatre which introduced Tchekoff to the public.

[4] Republished in 1914 in the Almenakh Shipovnik along with another letter on the same subject.

[5] Literally, “all soul,” or “all thought.”

[6] All the plays of Ostrovski are marked by conspicuous external action, which is often prejudicial to dramatic truth and inconsistent with the principle of realism.

[7] “The Life of Man,” published in 1906, was the first symbolic drama written in Russia. Later followed Andreyeff’s symbolic dramas, “King Hunger” (the representation of which was forbidden by the censor), “The Black Maskers,” “Anatema” (which was taken from the stage on petition of the Moscow clergy), and “The Ocean,” which, owing to technical difficulties of inscenation, was never staged.

[8] To appreciate the force of the above criticism the reader must recall that for about a century the Russian public has been accustomed to read only the most realistic form of literature.

[9] See Prologue.

[10] This definition of life is given by Andreyeff in the study published variously under the titles “My Diary” and “Our Prison.”

[11] “The Life of Man,” Act IV.

CONTENTS

PAGE

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE vii

THE SYMBOLIC DRAMAS OF ANDREYEFF, AN ESSAY BY V. V. BRUSYANIN xi

THE BLACK MASKERS 1

THE LIFE OF MAN 65

THE SABINE WOMEN 157

BIBLIOGRAPHY OF ANDREYEFF 197

THE BLACK MASKERS

CAST OF CHARACTERS

LORENZO, Duke of Spadaro
ECCO, a jester
DONNA FRANCESCA, wife of Lorenzo
SIGNOR CRISTOFORO, steward of the wine-cellar
SIGNOR PETRUCCIO, overseer
GENTLEMEN and LADIES of the ducal suite
MASKERS, invited by the Duke
BLACK MASKERS, uninvited
ROMUALDO, a singer
MUSICIANS
SERVANTS
PEASANTS

ACT I

SCENE I

_A luxurious, newly decorated hall in an ancient feudal castle. The walls are adorned with frescoes and hung with paintings blackened with age. Here and there are weapons and statues. The whole room, though brilliant with gold and with bright-coloured mosaics, is delicately tinted by light falling through coloured glass. At the left and in the rear are three semi-Gothic windows half concealed by heavy, gold-embroidered curtains. The rear wall, turning back at a right angle at the centre of the stage, recedes to a row of paired columns which support the upper part of the building. Behind these columns is a spacious, brightly illuminated entrance-hall. Massive double entrance-doors are seen at the right. Directly in front of the spectator, at the point where the rear wall begins to recede, a broad marble staircase with a massive sculptured balustrade ascends to the height of the columns, then, turning to the right, leads to other apartments. The wall above the columns is pierced by several small windows of coloured glass through which comes a peculiar and brilliant light._

_The final, hasty preparations are going on for a masquerade ball. The room is flooded with light from many chandeliers and from strikingly beautiful candelabra and sconces. Several servants in rich but uniform livery hurry from place to place, lighting fresh candles or moving back the heavy armchairs to give room for the dancers. Every now and then certain of them, as if recalling something left undone, rush up-stairs or to the entry doors, the firm, business-like voice of the overseer, SIGNOR PETRUCCIO, redoubling their haste and their emulation. Both the overseer and the servants are in high spirits, and the latter, as they come and go, exchange lively jests and quick, fleeting smiles. The gayest of all, however, is young LORENZO, the reigning Duke of Spadaro. Well formed, refined of feature, a little languid in manner, but courteous and kindly toward every one, he lightly moves about the hall, all aglow with the joy of anticipation, giving orders, jesting, and urging on the servants, now with cheering words and now with gestures of feigned anger. As he goes he casts happy smiles upon his young wife, the beautiful DONNA FRANCESCA, who responds with tender and loving glances. Several ladies and gentlemen, forming the suite of the Duke and Duchess, are also busily engaged, some, like the young Duke, joyfully and eagerly preparing for the reception of the expected guests, others, under cover of the happy confusion, exchanging fond glances, slyly pressing one another’s hands, and whispering boldly and quickly into blushing ears. In an upper room somewhere musicians are making ready for the ball, and fragments of musical airs are heard. Suddenly some one begins to sing in a rich baritone, but the song quickly passes over into laughter. Apparently, it is jolly there, too._

_On a rug before a blazing fire the Duke’s dog, a huge Saint Bernard, dozes in an attitude of luxurious abandon. Seated near the foot of the stairway, ECCO, the Duke’s jester, imitates the Duke’s voice and by his orders causes laughable confusion._

PETRUCCIO. Keep up that speed a little longer, Mario, and you’ll be your own grandfather. Hurry, man, hurry!

MARIO. Why, Signor Petruccio, the Duke’s best horse doesn’t get over the ground as fast as I do.

A SERVANT. When the flies sting.

ANOTHER SERVANT. Or the whip flicks.

PETRUCCIO. Come! lively, there, lively!

LORENZO. This way! More candles here! Don’t you see how dark this corner is? No darkness, Signor Petruccio, no darkness!

A GENTLEMAN. [To a lady] There! They have driven us out of our last refuge. But I shall kiss you yet.

THE LADY. In the dark it will be hard to find me.

THE GENTLEMAN. In the dark I shall spread my arms wide and embrace the whole night.

ANOTHER GENTLEMAN. You will make a rich haul, Signor Silvio.

ECCO. [Calling out] Mario! Carlo! Pietro! Quick! Hold a candle under this gentleman’s nose. The darkness frightens him out of his wits.

FRANCESCA. [To the Duke, affectionately] My dear! my love! my divinity! How charming your new costume is! You are like a shaft of sunlight flung through the lofty window of our cathedral. Your divine beauty fills me with adoration.

LORENZO. You are a delicate blossom, Francesca. You are a delicate blossom, and the sun, when it kisses you, is overbold. [He kisses her hand with profound respect and tenderness, but suddenly, in mock terror, calls to the overseer] But the tower, Petruccio, the tower! If you have forgotten to illuminate the tower I will have you impaled like an unbaptised Turk.

PETRUCCIO. The tower is illuminated, sir.

LORENZO. Illuminated? How dare you say so? It should blaze, it should sparkle, it should rise toward the dark heavens like a huge tongue of fire.

ECCO. Tut! Tut! Lorenzo. Don’t show your tongue to heaven or heaven will answer you with a fig.

LORENZO. My dear little fellow, you mustn’t annoy me with your jokes. I am looking forward to a feast of light, and your barbed shafts wound me to the soul. No darkness, Ecco, no darkness!

ECCO. Then you must light up your wife’s tresses. They are too dark, Lorenzo, too dark. And put a torch in each of her eyes. They are too dark, Lorenzo, too dark.

FRANCESCA. Wretch! Here are so many beautiful ladies—can’t one of you win the affections of this miserable jester?

FIRST LADY. He’s a hunchback.

SECOND LADY. If he should try to kiss me, his nose would prick me like a sword.

GENTLEMAN. Your heart, madam, would turn the edge of any sword.

Enter a gentleman, tall and thin as a pole, the image of Don Quixote. His moustaches droop and seem to be continually wet. He turns gloomily to the Duke.

CRISTOFORO. I have a shocking piece of news to impart to you, Signor.

LORENZO. What is it? You alarm me, Signor Cristoforo.

CRISTOFORO. I have reason to believe, sir, that we shall run short of both Cyprian and Falernian. These gentlemen [pointing with his forefinger to the Duke’s attendants] drink wine as camels in the desert drink water.

ONE OF THE SUITE. Signor Cristoforo, why are your moustaches always wet?

CRISTOFORO. [With dignity] It is my duty, sir, to test all the wines.

LORENZO. [Cheerfully] My good friend, you exaggerate the danger. Our cellars are inexhaustible.

CRISTOFORO. [Insistently] They drink wine like camels. Your happy mood pleases me, Signor, but you take things too light-heartedly. When your sainted father and I set out to deliver the Holy Sepulchre——

LORENZO. [Gently reproaching him] My dear old friend, you surely are not going to spoil, with your mumbling and grumbling, this delightful evening.

CRISTOFORO. [Good-naturedly] Well, well, my boy, don’t be angry. [Threateningly] Ho, there! Manucci! Filippo! After me!

[Exit.

LORENZO. But the roadway, Signor Petruccio! Heaven punish you! The roadway! You have forgotten to illuminate the roadway, and our friends will not be able to find us.

PETRUCCIO. The roadway is illuminated, Signor.

LORENZO. Illuminated? Your tongue is like a jaded nag. When the spurs prick its flanks it can only switch its tail. The whole road must sparkle. It must blaze with lights like the road to paradise. Understand me, Sir Overseer. The shades of the cypresses should flee in terror to the mountains where sleep the dragons. Do you lack torches and helpers? Do you lack kegs of pitch?

ECCO. If pitch is lacking, Petruccio, you had better go borrow it in hell. Satan will lend it to you on your personal security.

ONE OF THE SERVANTS. He would have fetched some thence before this but that he feared there would not be enough left to keep him warm.

SECOND SERVANT. Signor Petruccio is so chilly.

PETRUCCIO. Lively, there, lively!

FRANCESCA. [To the Duke] You forget me, Lorenzo. Though you light up everything, yet I, unless you smile upon me, am left in darkness. Do the masks interest you so much?

LORENZO. So much, my dear, that I am dying with impatience. There will be flowers and serpents, Francesca. There will be flowers, and serpents among the flowers. There will be a dragon, Francesca. A dragon will come crawling to us, Francesca, and you will see real fire issuing from his jaws. It will be great fun. But don’t be afraid. It’s all in jest. It’s all just our friends, and we shall have a glorious laugh over it. Why don’t they come?

A SERVANT. [Hurrying in] I was watching from the tower, and I saw something moving along the road, Signor. It looks like a black serpent crawling among the cypresses.

LORENZO. [Joyfully] They’re coming. They’re coming.

ANOTHER SERVANT. [Running in] I was watching from the tower, and I saw a dragon crawling toward us. I saw red fire gleaming from its eyes, and I was frightened, Signor.

LORENZO. [Joyfully] They’re coming. They’re coming. Do you hear, Petruccio?

PETRUCCIO. Everything is ready, Signor.

THIRD SERVANT. [Running in] There is shouting and commotion at the drawbridge, Signor. They are demanding admittance. I heard the clash of weapons, sir.

LORENZO. [Angrily] What! The drawbridge not down? Is that the way to receive my guests, Petruccio? To-morrow I discharge you, if you——

PETRUCCIO. Pardon me, sir. I will run. [Runs out.

LORENZO. They have come! Smile, Francesca! They have come!

ECCO. [Laughs very loudly] Yes, let’s laugh, Lorenzo. We must limber up our jaws. [Yawns.

LORENZO. But the musicians! Good Heavens! Where are the musicians? Has that dunce forgotten all my directions?

FRANCESCA. Don’t be angry, my dear. The musicians are in readiness.

LORENZO. But why are they not here?

FRANCESCA. See, now, my love, you compel me to let out the secret. They intended to surprise you. The musicians also are to appear in masks.

LORENZO. And I shall not recognise them? Oh, that is charming! And who planned this surprise? Ah, it was you, it was you, Signora. I can read it in your sly, smiling eyes. But the music! Surely they have not forgotten to learn the piece I composed for them. Oh, this fat rascal of a Petruccio! I shall certainly have to impale him.

ECCO. How indiscreet of you, Lorenzo! Petruccio will steal the stake and run away with it.

LORENZO. Oh! Now I think of it, Ecco, just a word with you before they come. My dear fellow, you may mock me as much as you please; I understand your humour and I like it. But don’t, I beg of you, offend my guests. You must not be malicious, Ecco, even in sport. You have a tender heart, my little hunchback, and you are not ill-natured. Why, then, do you sting people with your jests? Laugh. Entertain my guests. Make yourself agreeable to the ladies—and here you may go far—but do not irritate any one. To-day is my day, Ecco.

A SERVANT. [Flinging open the doors] They are at the door, Signor.

LORENZO. I’m coming. I’m coming. Call the musicians!

_Commotion in the hall. Several MASKERS appear. The costumes are such as are common at masquerades—harlequins, pierrots, Saracens, Turkish men and women, and animals and flowers. But all the faces are concealed under heavy, closely fitting masks. The MASKERS enter in profound silence and respond to the Duke’s courteous greetings with silent bows._

LORENZO. [Bowing low and courteously] I thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I am happy to greet you in my castle. Pardon the carelessness of my overseer in failing to lower the drawbridge and thus causing you some delay. I am greatly mortified, ladies and gentlemen.

A MASKER. [In a muffled voice] We arrived just the same. We got in, did we not, gentlemen?

SECOND MASKER. We got in.

THIRD MASKER. We got in.

Strange, muffled laughter from behind the heavy masks.

LORENZO. I am delighted to find you in such good spirits, ladies and gentlemen. From this moment my castle is yours.

A MASKER. Yes, it is ours. It is ours.

The same strange, muffled laughter.

LORENZO. [Looking about gaily] But I do not recognise any one. It is amazing, gentlemen, but I do not recognise a single soul. Is this you, Signor Basilio? It seems to me that I recognise your voice.

A VOICE. Signor Basilio is not here.

ANOTHER VOICE. Signor Basilio is not here. Signor Basilio is dead.

LORENZO. [Laughing] That’s a good joke. Signor Basilio dead? Why, he is as much alive as I am.

A MASKER. Are you, then, alive?

LORENZO. [Impatiently, but with great courtesy] Let us leave Death in peace, gentlemen.

A VOICE. Ask Death to leave you in peace. What need of peace has he?

LORENZO. Who said that? Was it you, Signor Sandro? [Laughing] I recognise you, sir, by your melancholy. But cheer up, my gloomy friend. See how many lights there are, how many beautiful, living lights.

A MASKER. Signor Sandro is not here. Signor Sandro is dead.

The same strange, muffled laughter. Other MASKERS arrive.

LORENZO. Yes, yes. Now I understand. [Laughing] All of us are dead. Signor Basilio is dead; Signor Sandro is dead; I am dead. Excellent! I congratulate you, gentlemen, on your extremely interesting jest. Still, I should like to know who you are— Ah, here come others! Greetings, my dear guests— What a strange costume! Why are you all in red, and what is the meaning of this hideous black snake that is twined about you? I trust it is not alive, Signora. If it were I should pity your poor heart into which it has so ruthlessly struck its fangs.

THE RED MASKER. [With a muffled laugh] Do you not recognise me, Lorenzo?

LORENZO. [Joyously] Is it you, Signora Emilia? But no, Signora Emilia is not so tall as you, and her voice is fuller and softer.

THE RED MASKER. I am your heart, Lorenzo.

LORENZO. Exquisite! I am sincerely delighted, my friends, that I invited you for this evening. You are so witty. However, you mistake, madam. This is not my heart. There is no serpent in my heart.

ANOTHER MASKER. Is not this your heart, Lorenzo?

LORENZO. [Starting back, but controlling himself] You frighten me, sir, coming so unexpectedly from behind. What? This hairy black spider; this repulsive monster on thin, wavering legs; those dull, greedy, cruel eyes—this my heart? No, Signor, my heart is full of love and welcome. Within my heart all is as radiant as is this castle, which greets you so joyously, my strange guests.

THE SPIDER. Lorenzo, Lorenzo, let us go and catch flies. In a spider-web in the tower yonder something has long been entangled and awaits you. Let us go, Lorenzo. Would you not like some fresh blood?

LORENZO. [Laughing] In my castle there is no spider-web. In my tower there is none of that darkness which is necessary to such loathsome creatures as you, my strange guest. But who are you?

THE RED MASKER. Lorenzo, the serpent is restless. It is trying to sting me, Lorenzo. Oh, the pain, the terror of it! Stroke its head, Lorenzo. It has such a beautiful, smooth head, and you see it is not alive. Soothe it, Lorenzo.

Muffled laughter.

LORENZO. [Falling in with the jest and cautiously stroking the serpent] When the devil tempts he takes the form of a serpent. But you, of course, are not the devil. You are only a mock serpent, only a mock serpent. [Hastily] But, gentlemen, is it not time to dance? The musicians, I presume, have long been waiting impatiently. Petruccio!

A MASKER. [Approaching him] What does your Grace command?

LORENZO. Pardon me, sir. I did not call to you. I was summoning my overseer. Petruccio!

THE MASKER. I am Petruccio.

LORENZO. [Laughing] Oh, so it is you, you fat old rascal. You, too, have taken a notion to join the sport. And I didn’t recognise you. Well, that is very neat. Come, now, tell me— But where are you? Petruccio! Petruccio! Really, I shall have to impale this fat rascal. Hello, there, somebody! Manucci! Pietro!

FIRST MASKER. Did you call me, sir?

SECOND MASKER. Did you call me, sir?

LORENZO. [Perplexed] No, I did not call you. [Grasping the situation and laughing] Ah, yes, I see. My good fellows, how dare you mingle with the guests?

FIRST MASKER. They told us to.

SECOND MASKER. They told us to.

LORENZO. [Good-humouredly clapping one of the MASKERS on the shoulder] Quite right. I was only fooling. Let us all be merry on this glorious night—But isn’t it odd that I do not recognise any one—positively not a soul—? Why, I’ve lost my servants again. Mario! Pietro—! Now, really, Signor, isn’t that strange? I have lost all my servants.

A MASKER. [Turning to the others] Gentlemen, Lorenzo has mislaid his servants.

Loud laughter, the MASKERS bowing with mock courtesy.

A VOICE. But where is your suite, Lorenzo?

LORENZO. [Looking about and smiling] I see nothing but masks. Here’s an interesting situation, gentlemen. Mine being the only real face, I am the only person about whom there can be no mistake.

Renewed laughter.

A VOICE. We are now your suite, Lorenzo.

SECOND VOICE. We are now your suite, Duke. What are your instructions?

Laughter.

LORENZO. [Very affably, but with dignity] It is delightful, gentlemen, to find you in such merry vein. I am overjoyed at your charming jest. But I should be deeply offended if you really took my servants’ place— Mario!

_Other MASKERS come up. On most of them the tight-fitting masks are replaced by painted faces. The women, however, as before, wear masks of coloured silk. The painted faces of the newcomers are hideous and revolting. Among them are corpses, cripples, and deformed persons. A grey, helpless creature with long legs moves about, frequently coughing and groaning. Seven humpbacked, wrinkled old women run in, in Indian file, capering joyfully and beating castanets._

LORENZO. [Bowing courteously] I have pleasure, my dear guests, in welcoming you to my castle. From this moment it is entirely at your service. Ah, what a charming procession! Tell me, my beauties, where is your bridegroom, the devil?

FIRST OLD WOMAN. [Running up to LORENZO] He is at our heels.

SECOND OLD WOMAN. [Running up to LORENZO] He is at our heels.

THE TALL GREY CREATURE. [Bending down to the Duke and coughing] Why did you call me from my bed, Lorenzo?

LORENZO. [Lightly] And where is your bed, Signor?

THE TALL GREY CREATURE. In your heart, Lorenzo.

LORENZO. [Cheerfully] How they do slander my poor heart! I am pleased to— [Staggering back] What an amazing disguise, Signor! I actually took you for a corpse. Pray tell me the name of the talented artist who so skilfully altered your features.

THE MASKER. Death.

LORENZO. Capital! But if you will permit me to say so, my dear guest, I am sure I recognise in your make-up the beloved features of my friend, Signor Sandro di Grada. Heavens, but you frightened me, my dear fellow! These masks, these curious masks! Do you know, I can’t make out at all who they are. Perhaps you can help me, Signor.

THE MASKER. It is dark, Lorenzo.

LORENZO. But I ordered an abundance of lights. We will have more of them. Petruccio! Petruccio!

THE MASKER. It is cold, Lorenzo.

LORENZO. Cold? Why, to me it seems as hot here as hell itself. However, if you are cold, my dear Sandro, pray come to the fire. Have a goblet of wine. Ho, there, Petruccio! Lazybones!

Several MASKERS, alike in appearance, run up at the same time and answer almost in one voice.

THE MASKERS. At your service, Signor.

LORENZO. [Not understanding] Petruccio!

THE MASKERS. [Together] At your service, Signor. At your service.

LORENZO. [Laughing] Ah, I see! A moment ago I lost my servants, and now I have lost my overseer. [In comic terror] But here is Signor Sandro come shivering from his grave. Who will give him wine? Pardon me, Signor— Why, he is already gone! Poor fellow! He wants to warm himself. How tired I am! I should like a drop of wine myself. Signor Cristoforo! Has no one seen Signor Cristoforo?

A tall, thin MASKER approaches.

THE MASKER. Your orders, sir?

LORENZO. Is that you, my honest friend? I recognise you by your stature. Bring me some wine. This receiving of my guests has wearied me.

THE MASKER. Something is wrong with our wine, Lorenzo. It has turned as red as Satan’s blood, and it crazes the brain like the poison of a serpent. Do not drink it, Lorenzo.

LORENZO. [Laughing] What could happen to our fine old wine? You have tasted too much of it and your head is muddled.

THE MASKER. [Insistently] I have already seen several drunken guests, Lorenzo. If it is honest wine, why should they be drunk?

LORENZO. Wine, you babbler, wine! [Drinks the wine, but at the first draught throws away the goblet] What is this you have given me? It seems as if the fires of hell were licking my throat and burning their way to my very heart. Cristoforo—! Where is he? Pardon me, gentlemen, but really something incomprehensible has happened to our wine— Ah, more maskers! I am glad to greet you in my castle, my dear guests.

While LORENZO, weariedly bowing ever lower, greets the strange MASKERS that are coming in, a subdued hum of conversation fills the hall.

FIRST MASKER. Whence do you come, Signor?

SECOND MASKER. From the night. And you, Signor, if you please?

FIRST MASKER. I also am from the night.

They laugh. Two other MASKERS converse.

FIRST MASKER. He has drunk all my blood. There is not one healthy, living spot left on my body. It is covered with blood and wounds.

SECOND MASKER. He kills those whom he loves.

FIRST MASKER. You know, of course, what is to happen to-day.

They move away. Other MASKERS converse.

VARIOUS MASKERS:

—It was idle for Lorenzo to light up his castle so brilliantly. Did you notice as we rode along that something was moving in the shadows of the cypresses?

—I saw nothing but darkness.

—But are you not afraid of darkness?

—Why, I do not think there is anything in it for us to be afraid of. What can the darkness do to us? But are you not sorry for this insane Lorenzo?

—I don’t know. Something, I assure you, was moving there.

—See how happy Lorenzo is. Isn’t it delightful to have such a cheerful and nimble servant?

They laugh. The masked musicians take their places in the balcony. ECCO moves about among the legs of the dancers, trying to peer under their masks and arousing laughter by his unsuccessful attempts.

ECCO. Are you not from the swamps, Signor? It seems to me you are very like the ague which for two months shook me as a dog shakes a rabbit.

The TALL GREY CREATURE strikes a careless blow and ECCO falls.

ECCO. That’s a strange sort of joke! Here am I, the jester, on the verge of tears, while you, at whom I should laugh, are smiling. Oh! who pinched me? Was it you, Signora?

A BEAUTIFUL MASKER. Yes, it was I, Ecco.

ECCO. I observe, Signora, that a hump on the breast deforms a character no less than a hump on the back.