A sacred tree on a vast plain in Persia near the confines of India. Votive offerings, pieces of cloth torn from clothing, bangles, armlets, ornaments, tapers, have been nailed on the trunk or tied to the branches. The heavy limbs spread out to a great distance from the trunk. Beneath them is deep cool shade, contrasting with the blinding glare of the noon sun on the sandy plain in the background. A merchant carrying in each hand a strapped box that resembles a modern sample case, plods wearily to the foot of the tree. He puts the boxes down and takes out a handkerchief to mop his forehead. He is a white CHRISTIAN, middle-aged, average-looking, with a moustache and beard beginning to show gray. His clothes in the style of the Italian merchant class of the thirteenth century are travel-worn. He signs, tired and hot.
From the left a MAGIAN, a Persian, dressed in the fashion of a trader, comes in. He carries a small, square bag. He also is hot, weary, and dust-covered. In age and appearance, making allowance for the difference in race, he closely resembles the Christian. He and the latter stare at each other, then bow perfunctorily. The Magian sets down his bag and wipes his brow.
They both chuckle. A BUDDHIST, a Kashmiri traveling merchant comes in, puffing and sweating, from the right. He has a pack strapped on his back. He resembles the other two in the essential character of his body and face. He stops on seeing them. After eyeing him for an appraising second, the two bow and the Buddhist comes forward to set his pack beside the bags of the others.
They all stare and begin to grow worried.
They glare at each other insultingly, their hands on their daggers. Suddenly they hear a noise from the left. Their eyes at once are turned in that direction and, forgetting personal animosities, they give a startled exclamation at what they see.
They prostrate themselves, their faces to the ground. A moment later, preceded by shouts, a cracking of whips, and the dull stamping of feet, a doulbe file of thirty men of different ages, stripped to the waist, harnessed to each other waist-to-waist and to the long pole of a two-wheeled wagon, stagger in, straining forward under the lashes of two soldiers who run beside them and the long whips of the Captain: and CORPORAL who are riding on the wagon, the Captain driving. As they reach the middle of the shade they stop. Lashed on the wagon is a coffin covered with a white pall.
He hands him the letter but the Captain backs away superstitiously.
The soldiers carry around jugs of water which the panting men reach out for avidly, then sing back. But three of the more elderly men are too spent to move.
The Christian goes to the wagon and gingerly pulls back the pall from the head of the coffin--then retreats with an exclamation as KUKACHIN'S face, that of a beautiful Tartar princess of twenty-three, is revealed inside the glass. Her calm expression seems to glow with the intense peace of a life beyond death, the eyes are shut as if she were asleep. The men stare fascinatedly.
While they have been speaking, unnoticed by them, it has grown dark. An unearthly glow, like a halo, lights up the face of Kukachin. From the branches of the tree comes a sound of sweet sad music as if the leaves were tiny harps strummed by the wind. The face of Kukachin becomes more and more living. Finally her lips part and her eyes open to look up at the tree.
A voice which is Kukachin's and yet more musical than a human voice, comes from the coffin as her lips are seen to move.
Here her lips part in laughter, of an intoxicating, supernatural gaiety, comes from her lips and is taken up in chorus in the branches of the tree as if every harp-leaf were laughing in music with her. The laughter recedes heavenward and dies as the halo of light about her face fades and noonday rushes back in a blaze of baking plain. Everyone is prostrate, the harnessed wretches in the exhausted attitudes of sleep, the others visibly trembling with superstitious horror.
With blows and kicks the soldiers get their human beasts to their feet. There are groans and curses and cries of pain. But three cannot be roused. The Captain growles savagely at the Christian to keep up his courage.
At a sign, the soldiers fall upon the three merchants, strip off their upper clothes, untie the dead men, and hitch them in their places. All the time the three set up miserable screams of protest, punctuated by the blows and kicks they receive. The others look on with exhausted indifference.
The Christian sets up a wailing cry and receives a blow. The Captain and Corporals spring up on the wagon.
With a great cracking of whips and shouts of pain the wagon is uplled swiftly away. On the ground under the sacred tree three bodies lie in crumpled heaps. The same sweet sad music comes from the tree again as if its spirit were playing on the leaves a last lamenting farewell to the dead Princess. It rises softly and as softly dies away until it is nothing but a faint sound of wind rustling the leaves.
Curtain.
Twenty-three years earlier. A fresh boy's voice is heard singing in a subdued tone. The light slowly reveals the exterior of DONATA'S home on a canal, Venice. MARCO POLO, a boy of fifteen, youthfully handsome and well made, is standing in a gondola beneath a barred window of the house, a guitar over his shoulder. The song finished, he waits anxiously. A hand is thrust out to him through the bars. He kisses it passionately. It is hurriedly withdrawn. DONATA'S face appears pressed against the bars. She is a girl of twelve, her face pale and pretty in the moonlight.
He pulls her willing hand down toward his lips.
A pause. Songs and music come from near and far-off in the night about them. Marco has gained possession of her two hands now and his face is closer to the bars of her window.
The moonlight fades into darkness as their lips meet. Then from the darkness are their voices heard in hushed tones.
The sentimental singing voices and guitars are heard from all corners of the night in celebration of love. The sound gradually grows fainter and fainter, receding into the distance, as if Marco were already leaving Venice behind him.
Darkness.
Six months later. The tolling of a church bell is first heard. Then the interior of the Papal Legate's palace at Acre is revealed--a combination of church and government building.
The Legate, TEDALDO, a man of sixty with a strong, intelligent face, is seated on a sort of throne placed against the rear wall. On his right stands a warrior noble, a KNIGHT-CRUSADER, in full armor, leaning on his sword. On his left, a DOMINICAN MONK, his adviser. On the left of the room is an altar with candles burning. On the right, an open portal with a sentry pacing up and down, spear in hand.
The two elder Polos, NICOLO and MAFFEO, stand in attitudes of patient servility before the throne. Marco's father, NICOLO, is a small thin middle-aged man, with a dry, shrewd face. Maffeo, Marco's uncle, is around the same age, but he is tall and stout with a round, jovial face and small, cunning eyes. There is a strong general resemblance between both of them and Marco. Marco: is sitting on a stool in the foreground, his body all screwed up into an awkward intensity, striving with all his might to compose a poem to Donata, but constantly distracted in spite of himself.
They bow humbly and retire backward. His eyes following them listlessly Tedaldo sees Marco, who at this moment is scratching himself, twisting and turning his legs and feet, tearing his hair in a perfect frenzy of balked inspiration. Tedaldo smiles and addresses him in an affectionate, humorous tone.
He and Maffeo draw near Marco.
He tries to hide it.
He laughs coarsely. Nicolo reads, a scornful grin coming to his lips.
Marco remains sullenly apart, shamefaced and angry, his fists clenched. Tedaldo reads--frowns--laughs--then smiling to Nicolo.
There is a roar of laughter in which Tedaldo joins. Marco looks about for a hole into which to crawl. Tedaldo addresses him amusedly but with kindness.
He gives it to Marco. The latter fiercely crumples it up and throws it on the floor and stamps on it.
The Knight hurries to the portal.
The cries of many voices. The Sentinel and Knight admit the MESSENGER but push back the others.
He falls fainting. The crowds cheer and sweep in.
He kisses Tedaldo's hand. All are kneeling now, their heads bowed. The bell of the churches begin to ring.
Tedaldo with a simple dignity and power, blesses them. They back out slowly, the Monk and Knight last. The Polos group together in the foreground, holding a whispered conference. Tedaldo kneels before the altar.
With a last gesture he turns, going quickly out the door in rear.
He throws the poem down again, starts to go, hesitates, suddenly turns back, picks it up, crams it into his doublet and runs wildly out the door. The scene fades into darkness. For a times the church bells, which have never ceased ringing, are heard acclaiming the new Pope; but the Polos proceed speedily on their journey and the sound is soon behind them
Darkness.
Light
comes, gradually revealing the scene. In the rear is the
front a Mahometan mosque. Before the mosque, is a throne
on which sits a MAHOMETAN RULER. On the right, the
inevitable warrioron his left, the inevitable
priestthe two defenders of the State. At the
ruler's feet his wives crouch like slaves. Everything is
jeweled, high-colored, gorgeous in this background.
Squatted against the side walls, forming a sort of
semi-circle with the throne at center, counting from left
to right consecutively, are a mother nursing baby, two
children playing a game, a young girl and a young man in
a loving embrace, a middle-aged couple, an aged couple, a
coffin. All these Mahometan figures remain motionless.
Only their eyes move, staring fixedly but indifferently
at the POLOS, who are standing at center. Marco is
carrying in each hand bags which curiously resemble
modern sample cases. He sets these down and gazes around
with a bewildered awe. Nicolo: (turning on himgenially) Well, son, here we are in Islam. Marco: (round-eyed) A man told me that Noah's Ark is still somewhere around here on top of a mountain. (Eagerly) And he proved it to me, too. Look! (He shows them a piece of wood) He broke this off of the Ark. See, it's got Noah's initials on it! Maffeo: (grimly) How much did you pay him for it? Nicolo: (dashing it out of Marco's handbitterly) Muttonhead! Do you suppose Almighty God would allow infidels to cut up Noah's Ark into souvenirs to sell to Christians? Maffeo: (teasingly) Your son and your money are soon parted, Brother. (Then placatingly) But he's only a boy. He'll learn. And before we go farther, Nicolo, we better read him from the notes we made on our last trip all there is to remember about this corner of the world. Nicolo: (they take out note-books closely resembling a modern business man's date-book and read) We're now passing through Kingdoms where they worship Mahomet. Maffeo: There's one kingdom called Musul and in it a district of Baku where there's a great fountain of oil. There's a growing demand for it. (Then speaking) Make a mental note of that. Nicolo: Merchants make great profits. The people are simple creatures. It's very cold in winter. The women wear cotton drawers. This they do to look large in the hips, for the men think that a great beauty. (The two MAHOMETAN MERCHANTS enter from the left. Maffeo recognizes them immediatelyin a swift aside to his brother). Maffeo: There's those damned Ali brothers. They'll cut under our prices with their cheap junk as usual. (The ALI brothers have seen the Polos and a whispered aside, evidently of the same nature, passes between them. Then simultaneously the two firms advance to meet each other putting on expressions of the utmost cordiality) Well, well. You folks are a welcome sight. One Ali: My dear, dear friends! Praise be to Allah! (They embrace). Maffeo: (with a cunning smirk) Selling a big bill of goods hereabouts, I'll wager, you old rascals? The Older Ali: (airily) My dear friend, don't speak of business. But you, you are on a venture to the court of the Great Kaan, we hear? Maffeo: What lies get around! Nothing in itabsolutely nothing! Nicolo: For heaven's sake, let's not talk business! Let's have a nice friendly chat. (The four squat together in a circle). Maffeo: (with a wink) I'll tell you a good one an Armenian doily-dealer told me down in Bagdad. (They all bend their heads toward him with expectant grins. He looks aroundthen begins in a cautious lowered tone) Well, there was an old Jew named Ikey and he married a young girl named Rebecca (He goes on telling the rest of the story with much exaggerated Jewish pantomime but in a voice too low to be heard. In the meantime, Marco has slipped off, full of curiosity and wonder, to look at this strange life. He goes first to the left, stops before the mother and baby, smiles down at it uncertainly, then bends down to take hold of its hand). Marco: Hello! (Then to the mother) He's fat as butter! (Both remain silent and motionless, staring at him from a great distance with indifferent calm. Marco is rebuffed, grows embarrassed, turns away to the children, who, frozen in the midst of their game of jackstraws, are looking at him. Marco adopts a lofty condescending air) Humh! Do you still play that game here? I remember itwhen I was a kid. (They stare silently. He mutters disgustedly) Thickheads! (And turns to the lovers who with their arms about each other, cheek to cheek, stare at him. He looks at them, fascinated and stirred, and murmurs enviously) She's pretty. I suppose they're engagedlike Donata and me. (He fumbles and pulls out the locket which is hung around his neck on a ribbon) Donata's prettier. (Then embarrassedly, he holds it out for them to see) Don't you think she's pretty? She and I are going to be married some day. (They do not look except into his eyes. He turns away, hurt and angry) Go to the devil, you infidels! (He stuffs the locket backstops before the thronetries to stare insolently at the king but, awed in spite of himself, makes a grudging bow and passes on, stops before the family group, sneers and passes on, stops before the old couple and cannot restrain his curiosity) Would you tell me how old you are? (He passes on, rebuffed again, stops fascinatedly before the coffin, leans out and touches it with defiant daring, shudders superstitiously and shrinks away, going to the merchant group who are roaring with laughter as Maffeo ends his story). The Older Ali: (to Nicolo) Your Son? Nicolo: yes, and a chip off the old block. The Older Ali: Will he follow in your footsteps? Nicolo: (jocosely) Yes, and you better look out then! He's as keen as a hawk already. The Older Ali: (with a trace of a biting smile) He greatly resembles a youth I saw back on the road buying a piece of Noah's Ark from a wayside sharper. Maffeo: (hastily coming to the rescue as Nicolo cannot hide his chagrinboastfully) It wasn't Mark. Mark would have sold him the lions of St. Mark's for good mousers! (The PROSTITUTE enters from the right. She is painted, half-naked, alluring in a brazen, sensual way. She smiles at Marco enticingly). Marco: (with a gasp) Look! Who's that? (They all turn, and, recognizing her, laugh with coarse familiarity). Maffeo: (jokingly) So here you are again. You're like a bad coin always turning up. Prostitute: (smiling) Shut up. You can bet it isn't old fools like you that turn me. Nicolo: (with a lecherous grin at her) No? But it's the old who have the money. Prostitute: Money isn't everything, not always. Now I wouldn't ask money from him. (She points to Marco). Nicolo: (crossly and jealously) Leave him alone, you filth! Maffeo: (broad-mindedly) Come, come, Nicolo. Let the boy have his fling. Prostitute: (her eyes on Marco) Hello, Handsome. Marco: (bewilderedly) You've learned our language? Prostitute: I sell to all nations. Marco: what do you sell? Prostitute: (mockingly) A precious jewel. Myself. (Then desirously) But for you I'm a gift. (Putting her hands on his shoulder and lifting her lips) Why don't you kiss me? Marco: (terribly confusedstrugglingly) II don't knowI mean, I'm sorry butyou see I promised someone I'd never(Suddenly freeing himselffrightenedly) Leave go! I don't want your kisses. (A roar of coarse taunting laughter from the men. Marco runs away, off left). Nicolo: (between his teeth). What a dolt! Maffeo: (slapping the prostitute on the bare shoulder) Better luck next time. He'll learn! Prostitute: (trying to hide her piqueforcing a cynical smile) Oh, yes, but I won't be a gift then. I'll make him pay, just to show him! (She laughs harshly and goes out left. A pause. All four squat again in silence). The Older Ali: (suddenly) Many wonders have come to pass in these regions. They relate that in old times three kings from this country went to worship a Prophet that was born and they carried with them three manner of offeringsGold and Frankincense and Myrrhand when they had come to the place where the Child was born, they marveled and knelt before him. Maffeo: That's written in the Bible. The child was Jesus Christ, our Lord. (He blesses himself, Nicolo does likewise). Nicolo: (defiantly) He was the Son of God! Both Alis: (stubbornly) There is no God but Allah! (A strained pause. A dervish of the desert runs in shrieking and begins to whirl. No one is surprised except the two Polos who get up to gape at him with the thrilled appreciation inspired by a freak in a sideshow. Marco comes back and joins them). Maffeo: (with appreciation) If we had him in Venice we could make a mint of money exhibiting him. (Nicolo nods). Marco: I'll have to write Donata all about this. (Wonderingly) Is he crazy? Maffeo: (in a low aside to him ) My boy, all Mahometans are crazy. That's the only charitable way to look at it. (Suddenly the call to prayer sounds from Muezzins in the minarets of the mosque. The dervish falls on his face. Everyone sinks into the attitude of prayer except the Polos who stand embarrassedly, not knowing what to do). Marco: Are they praying? Nicolo: Yes, they call it that. Much good it does them! Maffeo: Ssshh! Come! This is a good time to move on again. Marco! Wake up! (They go quickly out right, Marco following with the sample cases. The scene fades quickly into darkness as the call of the Muezzins is heard again). DARKNESS |
The
slowly-rising light reveals an Indian snake-charmer
squatted on his haunches at center. A snake is
starting to crawl from the basket in front of him,
swaying its head to the thin, shrill whine of a
gourd. Otherwise, the scene, in the placing of its
people and the characters and types represented, is the
exact duplicate of the last except that here the locale
is Indian. The background for the ruler's throne is
now a Buddhist temple instead of a mosque. The
motionless staring figures are all Indians. Looming
directly above and in back of the ruler's throne is an
immense Buddha. The Polos stand at center as
before, Marco still lugging the sample cases. He is
seventeen now. Some of the freshness of youth has
worn off. They stare at the snake-charmer, the two older men cynically. Marco gasps with enthralled horror. Marco: Look at that deadly snake! Maffeo: (cynically) He's a fake, like everything else here. His fangs have been pulled out. Marco: (disillusioned) Oh! (He turns away. The snake-charmer glares at them, stops playing, pushes his snake back into the box and carries it off, after spitting on the ground at their feet with angry disgust. Marco sits on one of the cases and glances about with a forced scorn; looks finally at the Buddhain a smart-Aleck tone) So that is Buddha! Nicolo: (begins to read from his note-book) These people are idolaters. The climate is so hot if you put an egg in their rivers it will be boiled. Maffeo: (taking up the reading from his book in the same tone) The merchants make great profits. Ginger, pepper, and indigo. Largest sheep in the world. Diamonds of great size. The Kings have five hundred wives apiece. Marco: (disgustedly) It's too darn hot here! Maffeo: (warningly) Sshhh! Don't let the natives hear you. Remember any climate is healthy where trade is brisk. Marco: (walks sullenly off to left. At the same moment two merchants, this time Buddhists, come in. The same interplay goes on with them as with the Ali Brothers in the previous scene, only this time it is all done in pantomime until the loud laughter at the end of Maffeo's story. As Maffeo tells the story, Marco is looking at the people but this time he assumes the casual, indifferent attitude of the worldly-wise. He makes a silly gesture to attract the baby's attention, passes by the two children with only a contemptuous glance, but stops and stares impudently at the loversfinally spits with exaggerated scorn) Where do you think you arehome with the light out? Why don't you charge admission? (He stalks onpauses before the middle-aged couple who have a bowl of rice between themin astonishment as though this evidence of a humanity common with his struck him as strange) Real rice! (He ignores the throne, passes quickly by the old people with a glance of aversion and very obviously averts his head from the coffin. As he returns to the group at center, Maffeo has just finished his story. There is a roar of laughter). Marco: (grinning eagerly) What was it, Uncle? Maffeo: (grinning teasingly) You're too young. Marco: (boastfully) Is that so? Nicolo (severely) Mark! (The Prostitute, the same but now in Indian garb, has entered from left and comes up behind Marco). Prostitute: A chip of the old block, Nicolo! Nicolo: (angrily) You again! Marco: (pleased to see herembarrassedly) Why, hello. Prostitute: (cynically) I knew you'd want to see me. (She raises her lips) Will you kiss me know? (as he hesitates) Forget your promise. You know you want to. Maffeo: (grinning) There's no spirit in the youngsters nowadays. I'll bet he won't. Prostitute: (her eyes on Marco's) How much will you bet? Maffeo: Ten (Marco suddenly kisses her). Prostitute: (turning to Maffeo) I win, Uncle. Marco: (with a grin) No. I kissed you before he said ten what. Maffeo: That's right! Good boy, Mark! Prostitute: (turning to Marcocynically) You're learning, aren't you? You're becoming shrewd even about kisses. You need only me now to make you into a real manfor ten pieces of gold. Marco: (genuinely overcome by a sudden shame) No, please.II didn't mean it. It was only in fun. Prostitute: (with a sure smile) Later, thenwhen we meet again. (She walks off left). Marco: (looks after her. As she evidently turns to look back at him, he waves his hand and grinsthen abashed) She's pretty. It's to bad she'swhat she is. Maffeo: Don't waste pity. Her kind are necessary evils. All of us are human. (A long pause). The Older Buddhist Merchant: (suddenly) The Buddha taught that one's loving-kindness should embrace all forms of life, that one's compassion should suffer with the suffering, that one's sympathy should understand all things, and last that one's judgment should regard all persons and things as of equal importance. Nicolo: (harshly) Who was this Buddha? The Older Buddhist Merchant: The Incarnation of God. Nicolo: You mean Jesus? The Older Buddhist Merchant: (unheedingly) He was immaculately conceived. The Light passed into the womb of Maya, and she bore a son who, when he came to manhood, renounced wife and child, riches and power, and went out as a beggar on the roads to seek the supreme enlightenment which would conquer birth and death; and at last he attained the wisdom where all desire has ended and experienced the heaven of peace, Nirvana. And when he died he became a God again. (The temple bells begin to ring in chorus. All except the Polos prostrate themselves before the Buddha). Marco: (to his unclein a whispered chuckle) Died and became a God? So that's what they believe about that stone statue, is it? Maffeo: They're all crazy, like the Mahometans. They're not responsible. Marco: (suddenly) I saw two of them with a bowl of rice Maffeo: Oh, yes. They eat the same as we do. (Then abruptly) Come on! This is our chance to make a start. Don't forget our cases, Mark. (They go out left followed by Marco with the sample cases. The scene fades into darkness. The clamor of the temple bells slowly dies out in the distance). DARKNESS. |
From
the darkness comes the sound of a small Tartar
kettledrum, its beats marking the rhythm for a crooning,
nasal voice, rising and falling in a wordless chant. The darkness gradually lifts. In the rear is a section of the Great Wall of China with an enormous shut gate. It is late afternoon, just before sunset. Immediately before the gate is a rude throne on which sits a Mongol ruler with warrior and sorcerer to right and left of him. At the sides are Mongol circular huts. The motionless figures sit before these. The MINSTREL, squatting at center, is the only one whose body moves. In the back of the throne and above it is a small idol made of felt and cloth. The clothes of the ruler and his court are of rich silk stuffs, lined with costly furs. The squatting figures of the people are clothed in rough robes. The Polos stand at center, Marco still lugging the battered sample cases. He is now nearly eighteen, a brash, self-confident young man, assertive and talky. All the Polos are weary and their clothes shabby and travel-worn. Marco: (setting down the bags with a thump and staring about with an appraising contempt) Welcome to that dear old Motherland, Mongolia! Maffeo: (wearily takes out his guide-book and begins to read in the monotone of a boring formula) Flocksgoatshorsescattle. The women do all the buying and selling. Business is all in cattle and crops. In short, the people live like beasts. Nicolo: (reading from his book) They have two Godsa God of Heaven to whom they pray for health of mind, and a God of Earth, who watches over their earthly goods. They pray to him also and do many other stupid things. Marco: (boredly) Welllet them! (He walks away and makes the circuit of the figures, but now he hardly glances at them. The TWO TARTAR MERCHANTS enter and there is the same pantomime of greeting between them and the Polos as with the buddhist merchants in the previous scene. Marco joins them. It is apparent the whole company is extremely weary. They yawn and prepare to lie down). Maffeo: We'll have time to steal a nap before they open the Gate. Marco: (with an assertive importance) Just a moment! I've got a good one an idol-polisher told me in Tibet. This is the funniest story you ever heard! It seems an Irishman got drunk in Tangut and wandered into a temple where he mistook one of the female statues for a real woman and (He goes on, laughing and chuckling to himself, with endless comic pantomime. The two tartar merchants fall asleep. Nicolo stares at his son bitterly, Maffeo with contemptuous pity. Finally Marco finishes to his own uproarious amusement). Nicolo: (bitterly) Dolt! Maffeo: (mockingly. With a yawn) Youth will have its laugh! (Marco stops open-mouthed and stares from one to the other). Marco: (faintly) What's the matter? Nicolo: (pettishly) Unless your jokes improve you'll never sell anything. Maffeo: I'll have to give Marco some lessons in how to tell a short story. (Warningly) And until I pronounce you graduated, mum's the word, understand! The people on the other side of that wall may look simple but they're not. (The PROSTITUTE enters dressed now as a Tartar. She comes and puts her hand on Marco's head). Prostitute: What has this bad boy been doing now? Maffeo: He's getting too witty! (He rests his head on his arms and goes to sleep). Prostitute: Shall I expect you again tonight? Marco: No. You've got all my money. (Suddenly gets to his feet and faces herdisgustedly) And I'm through with you, anyway. Prostitute: (with a scornful smile) And I with younow that you're a man. (She turns away). Marco: (angrily) Listen here! Give me back what you stole! I know I had it on a ribbon around my neck last night and this morning it was gone. (Threateningly) Give it to me, you, or I'll make trouble! Prostitute: (takes a crumpled paper from her bosom) Do you mean this? Marco: (tries to snatch it) No! Prostitute: (she unfolds it and reads)
(She laughs) Are you a
poet, too? |
Music
from full Chinese and Tartar bands crashes up to a
tremendous blaring crescendo of drums, gongs, and the
piercing shrilling of flutes. The light slowly comes to a
pitch of blinding brightness. Then, as light and sound
attain their highest point, there is a sudden dead
silence. The scene is revealed as the Grand Throne Room
in the palace of Kublai, the Great Kaan, in the city of
Cambaluc, Cathayan immense octagonal room, the
lofty walls adorned in gold and silver. In the far rear
wall, within a deep recess like the shrine of an idol, is
the throne of the Great Kaan. It rises in three tiers,
three steps to a tier. On golden cushions at the top
KUBLAI sits dressed in his heavy gold robes of state. He
is a man of sixty but still in the full prime of his
powers, his face proud and noble, his expression tinged
with an ironic humor and bitterness yet full of a
sympathetic humanity. In his person are combined the
conquering indomitable force of a descendant of Chinghiz
with the humanizing culture of the conquered Chinese who
have already begun to absorb their conquerors. On the level of the throne below Kublai are: on his right a Mongol warrior in full armor with shield and spear, his face grim, cruel and fierce. On his left CHU-YIN, the Cathayan sage and adviser to the Kaan, a venerable old man with white hair, dressed in a simple black robe. On the main floor, grouped close to the throne, are: on the right, the sons of the Kaan. Farther away, the nobles and warriors of all degrees with their wives behind them. On the left, the wives and concubines of the Kaan, then the courtiers, officers, poets, scholars, etc.all the non-military officials and hangers-on of government, with their women beside them. Marco stands, a sample case in each hand, bewildered and dazzled, gawking about him on every side. His father and uncle, bowing, walk to the foot of the throne and kneel before the Kaan. They make frantic signals to Marco to do likewise but he is too dazed to notice. All the people in the room are staring at him. The Kaan is looking at the two brothers with a stern air. An usher of the palace comes quietly to Marco and makes violent gestures to him to kneel down. Marco: (misunderstanding himgratefully) Thank you, Brother. (He sits down on one of the sample cases to the gasping horror of all the Court. The Kaan is still looking frowningly at the two Polos as he listens to the report of their Messenger escort. He does not notice. An outraged Chamberlain rushes over to Marco and motions him to kneel down). Marco: (bewilderedly) What's the trouble now? Kublai: (dismissing the messenger, having heard his reportaddresses the Polos coldly) I bid you welcome, Messrs. Polo. But where are the hundred wise men of the West who were to dispute with my wise men of the sacred teachings of Lao-Tseu and Confucius and the Buddha and Christ? Maffeo: (hurriedly) There was no Pope elected until just before Nicolo: And he had no wise men, anyway. (The Kaan now sees Marco and a puzzled expression of interest comes over his face). Kublai: Is he with you? Nicolo: (hesitantly) My son, Marco, your Majestystill young and graceless. Kublai: Come here, Marco Polo. (Marco comes forward, trying feebly to assume a bold, confident air). Maffeo: (in a loud, furious aside) Kneel, you ass! (Marco flounders to his knees). Kublai: (with a smile) I bid you welcome, Master Marco. Marco: Thank you, sir1 mean, your Lordshipyour(then suddenly) Before I forgetthe Pope gave me a message for you, sir. Kublai: (smiling) Are you his hundred wise men? Marco: (contentedly) Wellalmost. He sent me in their place. He said I'd be worth a million wise men to you. Nicolo: (hastily) His Holiness meant that Marco, by leading an upright lifenot neglecting the practical side, of coursemight set an example that would illustrate, better than wise words, the flesh and blood product of our Christian civilization. Kublai: (with a quiet smile) I shall study this apotheosis with unwearied interest, I foresee it. Marco: (suddenlywith a confidential air) Wasn't that just a joke, your asking for the wise men? His Holiness thought you must have a sense of humor. Or that you must be an optimist. Kublai: (with a smile of appreciation) I am afraid your Holy Pope is a most unholy cynic. (Trying to solve a riddle in his own mindmusingly) Could he believe this youth possesses that thing called soul the West dreams lives after deathand might reveal it to me? (Suddenly to Marco) Have you an immortal soul? Marco: (in surprise) Of course! Any fool knows that. Kublai: (humbly) But I am not a fool. Can you prove it to me! Marco: Why, if you didn't have a soul, what would happen when you die? Kublai: What, indeed? Marco: Why, nothing. You'd be deadjust like an animal. Kublai: Your logic is irrefutable. Marco: Well, I'm not an animal, am I? That's certainly plain enough. (Then proudly) No, sir! I'm a man made by Almighty God in His Own Image for His greater glory! Kublai: (staring at him for a long moment with appalled appreciation ecstatically) So you are the Image of God! There is certainly something about you, something complete and unanswerablebut wait a test! (He claps his hands, pointing to Marco. Soldiers with drawn swords leap forward and seize him, trussing him up his hands behind his back). Maffeo: (groveling) Mercy! He is only a boy! Nicolo: (groveling) Mercy! He is only a fool! Kublai: (sternly) Silence! (To Marco, with inhuman calm) Since you possess eternal life, it can do you no harm to cut off your head. (He makes a sign to a soldier who flourishes his sword). Marco: (trying to conceal his fear under a quavering, joking tone ) I mightcatchcold! Kublai: You jest, but your voice trembles. What! Are you afraid to die, immortal youth? Well, then, if you will confess that your soul is a stupid invention of your fear and that when you die you will be dead as a dead dog is dead Marco: (with sudden fury) You're a heathen liar! (He glares defiantly. His father and uncle moan with horror). Kublai: (laughs and claps his hands. Marco is freed. The Kaan studies his sullen but relieved face with amusement) Your pardon, Marco! I suspected a flaw but you are perfect. You cannot imagine your death. You are a born hero. I must keep you near me. You shall tell me about your soul and I will listen as to a hundred wise men from the West! Is it agreed? Marco: (hesitatingly) I know it's a great honor, sirbut forgetting the soul side of it, I've got to eat. Kublai: (astonished ) To eat? Marco: I mean, I'm ambitious. I've got to succeed, and (Suddenly blurts out) What can you pay me? Kublai: Ha! Well, you will find me a practical man, too. I can start you upon any career you wish. What is your choice? Maffeo: (interposing eagerly) If I might speak to the boy in private a minutegive him my humble advicehe is so young (Maffeo and Nicolo hurriedly lead Marco down to the foreground). Maffeo: You've made a favorable impressionGod knows whybut strike while the iron is hot, you ninny! Ask to be appointed a Second Class government commission-agent. Marco: (offendedly) No! I'll be first-class or nothing! Maffeo: Don't be a fool! A First Class agent is all brass buttons and no opportunities. A Second Class travels around, is allowed his expenses, gets friendly with all the dealers, scares them into letting him in on everythingand gets what's rightfully coming to him! (Then with a crafty look and a nudge in the ribs) And, being always in the secret, you'll be able to whisper to us in time to take advantage Marco: (a bit flusteredwith bluff assertion) I don't know. The Kaan's been square with me. After all, honesty's the best policy, isn't it? Maffeo: (looking him over scathingly) You'd think I was advising you to stealI, Maffeo Polo, whose conservatism is unquestioned! Marco: (awed) I didn't mean Maffeo: (solemnly) Do you imagine the Kaan is such a Nero as to expect you to live on your salary? Marco: (uncertainly) No, I suppose not. (He suddenly looks at Maffeo with a crafty wink) When I do give you a tip, what do I get from Polo Brothers? Maffeo: (between appreciation and dismay) Ha! You learn quickly, don't you? (Then hastily) Why, wewe've already thought of thattrust us to look after your best interestsand decided toto make you a junior partner in the firmeh, Nick?Polo Brothers and Son doesn't that sound solid, eh? Marco: (with a sly grin) It's a great honora very great honor. (Then meaningly) But as neither of you are Neros, naturally you'll also offer me Maffeo: (grinning in spite of himself) Hmm! Hmm! You Judas! Marco: A fair commission Nicolo: (blusteringbut his eyes beaming with paternal pride) You young scamp! Maffeo: (laughing) Ha-ha! Good boy, Mark! Polos will be Polos! (They all embrace laughingly. Kublai, who has been observing them intently, turns to Chu-Yin and they both smile). Kublai: Did their Pope mean that a fool is a wiser study for a ruler of fools than a hundred wise men could be? This Marco touches me, as a child might, but at the same time there is something warped, deformedTell me, what shall I do with him? Chu-Yin: Let him develop according to his own inclination and give him also every opportunity for true growth if he so desires. And let us observe him. At least, if he cannot learn, we shall. Kublai: (smilingly) Yes. And be amused. (He calls commandingly) Marco Polo! (Marco turns rather frightenedly and comes to the throne and kneels) Have you decided? Marco: (promptly) I'd like to be appointed a commission-agent of the Second Class. Kublai: (somewhat taken aback, puzzledly) You are modest enough! Marco: (manfullly) I want to start at the bottom! Kublai: (with mocking grandeur) Arise then, Second Class Marco! You will receive your agent's commission at once. (Then with a twinkle in his eye) But each time you return from a journey you must relate to me all the observations and comments of your soul on the East. Be warned and never fail me in this! Marco: (confused but cocksuredly) I won't. I'll take copious notes. (Then meaningly) And I can memorize any little humorous incidents Maffeo: (apprehensively) Blessed Savior! (He gives a violent fit of coughing). Marco: (looks around at him questioningly) Hum? (Misinterpreting his signal) And may I announce to your Majesty that a signal honor has just been conferred on me? My father and uncle have taken me into the firm. It will be Polo Brothers and Son from now on, and any way we can serve your Majesty Kublai: (a light coming over his face) Aha! I begin to smell all the rats in Cathay! (The two elder Polos are bowed to the ground, trembling with apprehension. Kublai laughs quietly) Well, I am sure you wish to celebrate this family triumph together, so you may go. And accept my congratulations, Marco! Marco: Thank you, your Majesty. You will never regret it. I will always serve your best interests, so help me God! (He goes grandly, preceded hurriedly by the trembling Nicolo and Maffeo. Kublai laughs and turns to Chu-Yin who is smiling). CURTAIN |
Kublai: (a bit
helplessly now) They complain that you have
entirely prohibited all free expression of opinion.
|
The
wharves of the Imperial Fleet at the seaport of Zayton
several weeks later. At the left, stern to, is an
enormous junk, the flagship. The wharf extends out, rear,
to the right of her. At the right is a warehouse, from a
door in which a line of half-naked slaves, their necks,
waists, and right ankles linked up by chains, form an
endless chain which revolves mechanically, as it were, on
sprocket wheels in the interiors of the shed and the
junk. As each individual link passes out of the shed it
carries a bale on its head, moves with mechanical
precision across the wharf, disappears into the junk, and
reappears a moment later having dumped its load and moves
back into the shed. The whole process is a man-power
original of the modern devices with bucket scoops that
dredge, load coal, sand, etc. By the side of the shed, a
foreman sits with a drum and gong with which he marks a
perfect time for the slaves, a four beat rhythm, three
beats of the drum, the fourth a bang on the gong as one
slave at each end loads and unloads. The effect is like
the noise of a machine. A bamboo stair leads up to the
high poop of the junk from front, left. It is just
getting dawn. A forest of masts, spars, sails of woven
bamboo laths, shuts out all view of the harbor at the end
of the wharf. At the foot of the stairs, Chu-Yin stands
like a sentinel. Above on top of the poop, the figures of
Kublai and Kukachin are outlined against the lightening
sky. Kublai: (brokenly) I must go. (He takes her in his arms) We have said all we can say. Little Daughter, all rare things are secrets which cannot be revealed to anyone. That is why life must be so lonely. But I love you mre dearly than anything on earth. And I know you love me. So perhaps we do not need to understand. (Rebelliously) Yet I wish some Power could give me assurance that in granting your desire I am acting for your happiness, and for your eventual deliverance from sorrow to acceptance and peace. (He notices she is weepingin self reproach) Old fool! I have made you weep again! I am death advising life how to live! Be deaf to me! Strive after what your heart desires! Who can ever know which are the mistakes we make? One should be either sad or joyful. Contentment is a warm sty for the eaters and sleepers! (Impulsively) Do not weep! Even now I can refuse your hand to Arghun. Let it mean war! Kukachin: (looking up and controlling herselfwith a sad futility) You do not understand. I wish to take this voyage. Kublai: (desperately) But I could keep Polo here. (With impotent anger) He shall pray for his soul on his knees before you! Kukachin: (what calm sadness) Do I want a slave? (Dreamily) I desire a captain of my ship on a long voyage in dangerous, enchanted seas. Kublai: (with a fierce defiance of fate) I am the Great Kaan! I shall have him killed! (a pause). Chu-Yin: (from below, recites in a calm, soothing tone) The noble man ignores self. The wise man ignores action. His truth acts without deeds. His knowledge venerates the unknowable. To him birth is not the beginning, nor is death the end. (Kublai's head bends in submission. Chu-Yin continues tenderly) I feel there are tears in your eyes. The Great Kaan, Ruler of the World, may not weep. Kublai: (brokenly) Ruler? I am my slave! (Then controlling himselfforcing an amused teasing tone) Marco will soon be here, wearing the self-assurance of an immortal soul and his new admiral's uniform! I must fly in retreat from what I can neither laugh away nor kill. Write when you reach Persia. Tell meall you can tellparticularly what his immortal soul is like! (Then tenderly) Farewell, Little Flower! Live. There is no other advice possible from one human being to another. Kukachin: Liveand love! Kublai: (trying to renew his joking tone) One's ancestors, particularly one's grandfather. Do not forget me! Kukachin: Never! (They embrace.) Kublai: (chokingly) Farewell. (He hurries down the ladderto Chu-Yin) You rmainsee himbring me word (He turns his head up to Kukachin) For the last time, farewell, Little Flower of my life! May you know happiness! (He turns quickly and goes). Kukachin: Farewell! (She bows her head on the rail and weeps). Chu-Yin: (after a pause) You are tired, Princess. Your eyes are red from weeping and your nose is red. You look olda little homely, even. The Admiral Polo will not recognize you. (Kukachin dries her eyes hastily.) Kukachin: (half-smiling and half-weeping at his teasing) I thinkyou are a very horrid old man! Chu-Yin: A little sleep, Princess, and you will be beautiful. The old dream passes. Sleep and awake in the new. Life is perhaps most wisely regarded as a bad dream between two awakenings, and every day is a life in miniature. Kukachin: (wearily and drowsily) Your wisdom makes me sleep. (Her head sinks back on her arms and she is soon asleep). Chu-Yin: (after a pausesoftly) Kukachin! (He sees she is asleepchuckles) I have won a convert. (Then speculatively) Youth needs so much sleep and old age so little. Is that not a proof that from birth to death one grows steadily closer to complete life? Hum. (He ponders on this. From the distance comes the sound of Polo's band playing the same martial air as in the previous scene. Chu-Yin startsthen smiles. The music quickly grows louder. The Princess awakes with a start). Kukachin: (startedly) Chu-Yin! Is that the Admiral coming? Chu-Yin: (dryly) I suspect so. It is like him not to neglect a person in the city when saying good-bye. Kukachin: (flurriedly) I must go to my cabin for a moment. (She hurries back). Chu-Yin: (listens with a pleased, ironical smile as the band gets rapidly nearer. Finally it seems to turn a corner nearby, and a moment later, to a deafening clangor, Marco enters, dressed in a gorgeous Admiral's uniform. Two paces behind, side by side, walk Maffeo and Nicolo, dressed only a trifle less gorgeously as Commodores. Behind them comes the band. Marco halts as he sees Chu-Yin, salutes condescendingly, and signals the band to be silent. Chu-Yin bows gravely and remarks as if answering an argument in his own mind) Still, even though they cannot be house-broken, I prefer monkeys because they are so much less noisy. Marco: (with a condescending grin) What's thatmore philosophy? (Clapping him on the back) Well, I like your determination. (He wipes his brow with a handkerchief) Phew! I'll certainly be glad to get back home where I can hear some music that I can keep step to. My feet just won't give in to your tunes. (With a grin) And look at the Old Man and Uncle. They're knock-kneed for life. (Confidentially) Still, I thought the band was a good ideato sort of cheer up the Princess, and let people know she's leaving at the same time. (As people begin to come in and stare at the poop of the ship) See the crowd gather? I got them out of bed, too! Chu-Yin: (ironically) You also woke up the Princess. You sail at sunrise? Marco: (brisklytaking operations in hand) Thank you for reminding me. I've got to hurry. (To his father and uncle) You two better get aboard your ships and be ready to cast off when I signal. (They go off. He suddenly bawls to someone in the ship) Much more cargo to load? A Voice: Less than a hundred bales, sir. Marco: Good. Call all hands on deck and stand by to put sail on her. A Voice: Aye-aye, sir. Marco: And look lively, damn your lazy souls! (To Chu-Yincomplacently) You've got to impose rigid discipline on shipboard. Chu-Yin: (inquisitively) I suppose you feel your heavy responsibility as escort to the future Queen of Persia? Marco: (soberly) Yes, I do. I'll confess I do. If she were a million yen's worth of silk or spices, I wouldn't worry an instant, but a Queen, that's a different matter. However, when you give my last word to His Majesty, you can tell him that I've always done my duty by him and I won't fail him this time. As long as I've a breath in me, I'll take care of her! Chu-Yin: (with genuine appreciation) That is bravely spoken. Marco: I don't know anything about brave speaking. I'm by nature a silent man, and I let my actions do the talking. But, as I've proved to you people in Cathay time and again, when I say I'll do a thing, I do it! Chu-Yin: (suddenly with a sly smile to himself) I was forgetting. His Majesty gave me some secret last instructions for you. You are, at some time every day of the voyage, to look carefully and deeply into the Princess's eyes and note what you see there. Marco: What for? (Then brightly) Oh, he's afraid she'll get fever in the tropics. Well, you tell him I'll see to it she keeps in good condition. I'll do what's right by her without considering fear or favor. (Then practically) Then, of course, if her husband thinks at the end of the voyage that my work deserves a bonuswhy, that's up to him. (Inquisitively) She's never seen him, has she? Chu-Yin: No. Marco: (with an air of an independent thinker) Well, I believe in love matches myself, even for Kings and Queens. (With a grin) Come to think of it, I'll be getting married to Donata myself when I get home. Chu-Yin: Donata? Marco: (proudly) The best little girl in the world! She's there waiting for me. Chu-Yin: You have heard from her? Marco: I don't need to hear. I can trust her. And I've been true to her, too. I haven't ever thought of loving anyone else. Of course, I don't mean I've been any he-virgin. I've played with concubines at odd moments when my mind needed relaxationbut that's only human nature. (His eyes glistening reminiscently) Some of them were beauties, too! (With a sigh) Well, I've had my fun and I suppose it's about time I settled down. Chu-Yin: Poor Princess! Marco: What's that? Oh, I see, yes, I sympathize with her, toogoing into a harem. If there's one thing more than another that proves you in the East aren't responsible, it's that harem notion. (With a grin) Now in the West we've learned by experience that one at a time is trouble enough. Chu-Yin: (dryly) Be sure and converse on love and marriage often with the Princess. I am certain you will cure her. Marco: (mystified) Cure her? Chu-Yin: Cure her mind of any unreasonable imaginings. Marco: (easily) Oh, I'll guarantee she'll be contented, if that's what you mean. (The human chain in back finishes its labors and disappears into the shed. The crowd of people has been steadily augmented by new arrivals, until a small multitude is gathered standing in silence staring up at the poop. Marco says with satisfaction) Well, cargo's all aboard, before schedule, too. We killed six slaves but, by God, we did it! And look at the crowd we've drawn, thanks to my band! Chu-Yin: (disgustedly) They would have come without noise. They love their Princess. Marco: (cynically) Maybe, but they love their sleep, too. I know 'em! (A cry of adoration goes up from the crowd. With one movement they prostrate themselves as the princess comes from the cabin dressed in a robe of silver and stands at the rail looking down). The Crowd: (in a long, ululating whisper) Farewellfarewellfarewellfarewell! Kukachin: (silences them with a motion of her hand)
(A sound of low weeping
comes from the crowd) Farewell! |
Poop deck
of the royal junk of the princess Kukachin at anchor in the harbor of Hormuz,
Persia—a moonlight night some two years later. On a silver throne at center
Kukachin is sitting dressed in a gorgeous golden robe of ceremony. Her
beauty has grown more intense, her face has undergone a change, it is the
face of a woman who has known real sorrow and suffering. In the shadow
of the highest deck in rear her women-in-waiting are in a group, sitting
on cushions. On the highest deck in rear sailors lower and furl the sail
of the mizzenmast, every movement being carried out in unison with a machine-like
rhythm. The bulwarks of the junk are battered and splintered, the sail
is frayed and full of jagged holes and patches. In the foreground (the
port side of deck) the two elder Polos are squatting. Each has a bag of
money before him from which they are carefully counting gold coins and
packing stacks of these into a chest that stands between them.
Marco: (his voice, hoarse and domineering, comes from the left just before the curtain rises) Let go that anchor! (A meek "Aye-Aye, sir," is heard replying and then a great splash and a long rattling of chains. The curtain then rises discovering the scene as above. Marco's voice is again heard, "Lower that mizzensail! Look lively now!") Boatswain: (with the sailors) Aye-aye, sir! (They lower the sail, and begin to tie it up trimly). Maffeo: (looking up and straightening his cramped back—with a relieved sigh) Here's Persia! I'll be glad to get on dry land again. Two years on this foreign tub are too much. Nicolo: (with a grunt, intent on the money) Keep counting if you want to finish before we go ashore. It's nine hundred thousand now in our money, isn't it? Maffeo: (nods—counting again) This lot will bring it to a million. (He begins stacking and packing again). Boatswain: (chanting as his men work) Great were the wavesChorus of sailors: Great were the waves! Boatswain: Fierce were the winds!Chorus: Fierce were the winds! Boatswain: Fire was the sun!Chorus: Fire was the sun! Boatswain: Long was the voyage!Chorus: Long was the voyage! Boatswain: Many have died!Chorus: Many have died. Kukachin: (chants the last line after them—sadly) Many have died! (After a brooding pause she rises and chants in a low voice) If I were asleep in green water,
Sailors:
|
One year later.
The Grand Throne Room in the Imperial palace at Cambaluc. Kublai squats on his throne, aged and sad, listening with an impassive face to general Bayan, dressed in the full military uniform and armor of the Commander-in-Chief explaining earnestly with several maps in his hand. On Kublai’s left stands Chu-Yin, who is reading. Behind Bayan are grouped at attention all the generals of his army with a multitude of young staff officers, all gorgeously uniformed and armored. From the room on the right, the ballroom, a sound of dance music and laughter comes through the closed doors. Bayan: (impressively—pointing to the map) Here, Your Majesty, is the line of the river Danube which marks the Western boundary of your Empire. Beyond it, lies the West. Our spies report their many petty states are always quarreling. So great is their envy of each other that we could crush each singly and the rest would rejoice. We can mobilize one million horsemen on the Danube within a month. (Proudly) We would ride their armies down into the sea! Your Empire would extend from ocean to ocean! Kublai: (wearily) It is much too large already. Why do you want to conquer the West? It must be a pitiful land, poor in spirit and material wealth. We have everything to lose by contact with its greedy hypocrisy. The conqueror acquires first of all the vices of the conquered. Let the West devour itself. Bayan: (helplessly) But—everywhere in the East there is peace! Kublai: (with hopeless irony) Ah! And you are becoming restless? Bayan: (proudly) I am a Mongol—a man of action! Kublai: (looking at him with musing irony) Hum! You have already conquered the West, I think. Bayan: (puzzled) What, Your Majesty? (Then persuasively) The West may not be strong but it is crafty. Remember how that Christian, Polo, invented the engine to batter down walls? It would be better to wipe out their cunning now before they make too many engines to weaken the power of men. (Then with a sudden inspiration) And it would be a righteous war! We would tear down their Christian Idols and set up the image of the Buddha! Kublai: Buddha, the Prince of Peace? Bayan: (bowing his head as do all his retinue) The Gentle One, The Good, The Kind, The Pitiful, The Merciful, The Wise, The Eternal Contemplative One! Kublai: In His Name? Bayan: (fiercely) Death to those who deny Him! All: (with a great fierce shout and a clanking of swords) Death! Kublai: (looks up at the ceiling quizzically) A thunderbolt? (Waits) No? Then there is no God! (Then to Bayan with a cynical bitter smile) August Commander, if you must have war, let it be one without fine phrases—a practical war of few words, as that Polo you admire would say. Leave the West alone. Our interests do not conflict—yet. But there is a group of islands whose silk industry is beginning to threaten the supremacy of our own. Lead your gallant million there—and see to it your war leaves me in peace! Bayan: I hear and I obey! (He turns to his staff exultantly) His Majesty has declared war! All: (with a fierce cheer) Down with the West! Bayan: (hastily) No. Not yet. Down with Japan! (They cheer with equal enthusiasm—then he harangues them with the air of a patriotic exhorter) His Majesty’s benevolence and patience have been exhausted by the continued outrages against our silk nationals perpetrated by unscrupulous Japanese trade-pirates who, in spite of his protests, are breeding and maintaining silkworms for purposes of aggression! We fight in the cause of moral justice, that our silk-makers may preserve their share of the eternal sunlight! (A long cheer). Kublai: (smiling—distractedly) War without rhetoric, please! Polo has infected you with cant! The West already invades us! Throw open the doors! Music! (The doors are thrown open. The dance music sounds loudly) Go in and dance, everyone! You, too, General! I revoke my declaration of war—unless you learn to dance and be silent! (They all go into the ballroom, Bayan stalking majestically with an injured mien) But dancing makes me remember Kukachin whose little dancing feet—! Shut the doors! Music brings back her voice singing! (Turning to Chu-Yin—harshly) Wisdom! No, do not read! What good are wise writings to fight stupidity? One must have stupid writings that men can understand. In order to live even wisdom must be stupid! A Chamberlain: (enters hurriedly and prostrates himself ) A Courier from Persia! Kublai: (excitedly) From Kukachin! Bring him here! (The chamberlain dashes to the door and a moment later the Courier enters, travel-stained and weary. He sinks into a heap before the throne. Kublai shouts at him impatiently). Kublai: Have you a letter? Courier: (with a great effort holds out a letter) Here! (He collapses. Chu-Yin hands the letter up to Kublai who takes it eagerly from him. He begins to read at once. The chamberlain comes back with a cup of wine. The Courier is revived and gets to his knees, waiting humbly). Chu-Yin: (goes back to Kublai who has finished reading the short note and is staring somberly before him) And did the Little Flower save his Immortal Soul? (Kublai does not look at him but mutely hands him the letter. Chu-Yin becomes grave. He reads aloud) "Arghun had died. I am the wife of his son, Ghazan. It does not matter. He is kind but I miss my home and you. I doubt if I shall be blessed with a son. I do not care. I have lost my love of life. My heart beats more and more wearily. Death wooes me. You must not grieve. You wish me to be happy, do you not? And my body may resist Death for a long time yet. Too long. My soul he has already possessed. I wish to commend the unremitting attention to his duty of Admiral Polo. He saved my life three times at the risk of his own. He delivered me to Ghazan. Send him another million. You were right about his soul. What I had mistaken for one I discovered to be a fat woman with a patient virtue. By the time you receive this they will be married in Venice. I do not blame him. But I cannot forgive myself—nor forget—nor believe again in any beauty in the world. I love you the best in life. And tell Chu-Yin I love him too." (He lets the letter in his hand drop to his side, his eyes filling, his voice grown husky. Kublai stares bleakly ahead of him). Kublai: (at last rouses himself—harshly to the Courier) Did the Queen give you this in person? Courier: Yes, your Majesty—with a generous gift. Kublai: I can be generous too. Did she appear—ill? Courier: Yes. I could scarcely hear her voice. Kublai: You brought no other word? Courier: Not from the Queen. I came privately from her. But Admiral Polo suspected my departure and gave me a verbal message which he caused me to memorize. Kublai: (harshly—his eyes beginning to gleam with anger) Ha! Go on! Repeat! Courier: (stopping for a moment to freshen his memory) He said, tell the Great Kaan that "in spite of perils too numerous to relate, I have delivered my charge safely to Ghazan Khan. In general, she gave but little trouble on the voyage, for although flighty in temper and of a passionate disposition, she never refused to heed my advice for her welfare and as I informed His Majesty, King Ghazan, the responsibilities of marriage and the duties of motherhood will sober her spirit and she will settle down as a sensible wife should. This much I further add, that in humble obedience to your final instructions given me by Mr. Chu-Yin, I looked daily into her eyes." Kublai: (bewilderedly to Chu-Yin) What? Did you—? Chu-Yin: (miserably) Forgive an old fool! I meant it partly in jest as a last chance—to cure her—or to awaken him. Courier: (continuing) "But I have never noted any unnatural change in them except toward the termination of our trip, particularly on the last day, when I noticed a rather strained expression, but this I took to be fever due to her Highness’s spleen being sluggish after the long confinement on shipboard." Kublai: (choking with wrath) O God of the Somber Heavens! Courier: And he gave me no money for delivering the message but he promised that you would reward me nobly. Kublai: (with wild laughter) Ha-ha-ha! Stop! Do you dare to madden me? (Then suddenly raging) Out of my sight, dog, before I have you impaled! (The terror-stricken Courier scrambles out like a flash. Kublai stands up with flashing eyes—revengefully). I have reconsidered! I shall conquer the West! I shall lead my armies in person! I shall not leave one temple standing nor one Christian alive who is not enslaved! Their cities shall vanish in flame, their fields shall be wasted! Famine shall finish what I leave undone! And of the city of Venice not one vestige shall remain! And of the body of Marco Polo there shall not be a fragment of bone nor an atom of flesh which will not have shrieked through ten days’ torture before it died! Chu-Yin: Master! (He throws himself on his face at Kublai’s feet) Do not torture yourself! Is this Wisdom? Is this the peace of the soul? Kublai: (distractedly) To revenge oneself—that brings a kind of peace! Chu-Yin: To revenge equally the wrong of an equal perhaps, but this—? Can you confess yourself weaker than his stupidity? Kublai: He has murdered her! Chu-Yin: She does not accuse him. What would be her wish? Kublai: (his anger passing—wearily and bitterly, after a pause) Rise, my old friend, it is I who should be at your feet, not you at mine! (He sinks dejectedly on his throne again. After a pause, sadly) She will die. Why is this? What purpose can it serve? My hideous suspicion is that God is only an infinite, insane energy which creates and destroys without other purpose than to pass eternity in avoiding thought. Then the stupid man becomes the Perfect Incarnation of Omnipotence and the Polos are the true children of God! (He laughs bitterly) Ha! How long before we shall be permitted to die, my friend? I begin to resent life as the insult of an ignoble inferior with whom it is a degradation to fight! (Broodingly—after a pause) I have had a foreboding she would die. Lately, to while away time, I experimented with the crystal. I do not believe the magic nonsense about it but I do consider that, given a focus, the will can perhaps overcome the limits of the senses. Whatever the explanation be, I looked into the crystal and willed to see Kukachin in Persia and she appeared, sitting alone in a garden, beautiful and sad, apart from life, waiting— (Brokenly) My eyes filled with tears. I cried out to her—and she was gone! (Then suddenly— to the chamberlain) Bring me the crystal! (To Chu-Yin as the chamberlain goes) Marco, the true ruler of the world, will have come to Venice by this time. My loathing grows so intense I feel he must jump into the crystal at my bidding. And—in the cause of wisdom, say—we must see what he is doing now. (The chamberlain returns with the crystal. Kublai takes it eagerly from his hand and stares fixedly into it). Chu-Yin: (protestingly) Why do you wish to hurt yourself further? Kublai: (staring fixedly) I shall observe dispassionately. It is a test of myself I want to make as a penalty for my weakness a moment ago. (He sees something) Ah—it begins. (A pause. The light grows dimmer and dimmer on the stage proper as it begins to come up on the extreme foreground) I see—a city whose streets are canals—it is evening—a house. I begin to see through the walls— Ah! (The lights come up again on the back stage as the forestage is fully revealed. The Kaan on his throne and Chu-Yin are seen dimly, behind and above, like beings on another plane. At the center of the forestage is a great banquet table garishly set with an ornate gold service. A tall majordomo in a gorgeous uniform enters and stands at attention as the procession begins. First come the Guests, male and female, a crowd of good substantial bourgeois, who stare about with awe and envy and are greatly impressed by the gold plate). A Man: They’ve laid out a pile of money here! A Woman: Is that gold service really gold? Another: absolutely. I can tell without biting it. A Man: They must have cash, whoever they are. A Woman: Do you think they’re really the Polos? Another: They looked like greasy Tartars to me. Another: That was their queer clothes. A Man: And remember they’ve been gone twenty-odd years. Another: In spite of that, I thought I could recognize Maffeo A Woman: Will Donata know Marco, I wonder? A Man: What’s more to her point, will he recognize her? A Woman: Imagine her waiting all this time! Another: How romantic! He must be terribly rich—if it’s really him. A Man: We’ll soon know. That’s why we were invited. A Woman: Ssshh! Here comes Donata now. How old she’s getting to look! Another: And how fat in the hips! A Man: (jokingly) That’s the way I like em, and perhaps Marco— (Donata enters on the arm of her father, a crafty, wizened old man. She has grown into a stout middle-age but her face is unlined and still pretty in a bovine, good-natured way. All bow and they return this salutation). All: Congratulations, Donata! (She blushes and turns aside in an incongruous girlish confusion). Father: (proud but pretending querulousness) Don’t tease her now! The girl’s nervous enough already. And it may not be Marco after all but only a joke someone’s put up on us. All: (suddenly with a great gasp) Oh, listen! (An orchestra vigorously begins a flowery, sentimental Italian tune. This grows into quite a blare as the musicians enter from the right, six in number, in brilliant uniforms) Oh, look! (The musicians form a line, three on each side by the stairs on right) Oh, see! (A procession of servants begins to file one by one through the ranks of musicians, each carrying on his head or upraised hand an enormous platter on which are whole pigs, fowl of all varieties, roasts, vegetables, salads, fruits, nuts, dozens of bottles of wine. The servants arrange these on the table, in symmetrical groups, with the trained eye for display of window-dressers, until the table, with the bright light flooding down on it, closely resembles the front of a pretentious delicatessen store. Meanwhile) See! What a turkey! Such a goose! The fattest pig I ever saw! What ducks! What vegetables! Look at the wine! A feast for the Gods! And all those servants! An army! And the orchestra! What expense! Lavish! They must be worth millions! (The three Polos make their grand entrance from the stairs on right, walking with bursting self-importance between the files of musicians who now blare out a triumphant march. The two elder precede Marco. All three are dressed in long robes of embroidered crimson satin reaching almost to the ground. The guests give a new united gasp of astonishment) Is it they? Is that old Nicolo? That’s Maffeo’s nose! No! It isn’t them at all! Well, if it’s a joke, I don’t see the point. But such robes! Such hand embroidery! Such material! They must be worth millions. Donata: (falteringly) Is that him, father? I can’t tell. (She calls faintly) Marco! (But he pretends not to hear. He gives a sign at which the three take off their robes and hand them to the servants. They have even more gorgeous blue ones underneath. Marco addresses the servants in a false voice). Marco: My good men, you may sell these rich robes and divide the proceeds among yourselves! And here is a little something extra. (He tosses a handful of gold to the servants and another to the musicians. A mad scramble results. The guests gasp. They seem inclined to join in the scramble). Guests: How generous! What prodigality! What indifference to money! They throw it away like dirt. They must be worth millions! Marco: (in the same false voice) Our guests look thirsty. Pass around the wine. (The servants do so. The guests gaze, smell, taste). All: What a vintage! What flavor! What bouquet! How aged! It must have cost twenty lire a bottle! (At another signal the three Polos take off their blue robes). Marco: (regally) Give those to the musicians! (They are revealed now in their old dirty, loose Tartar traveling dress and look quite shabby. The guests gape uncertainly. Then Marco declares grandly) You look astonished, good people, but this is a moral lesson to teach you not to put too much faith in appearances, for behold! (He slits up the wide sleeves of his own robe, as do his father and uncle, and now the three, standing beside a big empty space which has been purposely left at the very center of the table at the front, lower their opened sleeves, and, as the musicians, obeying this signal, start up a great blare, let pour from them a perfect stream of precious stones which forms a glittering multicolored heap. This is the final blow. The guests stare pop-eyed, open-mouthed, speechless for a second. Then their pent-up admiration breaks forth). All: Extraordinary! Jewels! Gems! Rubies! Emeralds! Diamonds! Pearls! A king’s ransom! Millions! Marco: (suddenly with his hail-fellow-well-met joviality) Well folks, are you all tongue-tied? Isn’t one of you going to say welcome home? And Miss Donata, don’t I get a kiss? I’m still a bachelor! (Immediately with mad shouts of "Bravo!" "Welcome home!" "Hurrah for the Polos!" etc., etc., the guests bear down on them in a flood. There is a confused whirl of embraces, kisses, backslaps, handshakes and loud greetings of all sorts. Marco manages to get separated and pulls Donata down front to the foreground). Donata: (half swooning). Marco! Marco: (moved) My old girl! (They kiss, then he pushes her away) Here! Let me get a good look at you! Why, you’re still as pretty as a picture and you don’t look a day older! Donata: (exaltedly) My beloved prince! Marco: (jokingly) No, if I was a prince I’d never have remained single all these years in the East! I’m a hero, that’s what! And all the twenty-odd years I kept thinking of you, and I was always intending to write— (He pulls the pieces of the miniature wrapped in the handkerchief out of his pocket) Here’s proof for you! Look at yourself! You’re a bit smashed but that was done in a hand-to-hand fight with pirates. Now don’t I deserve another kiss? Donata: (giving it) My hero! (Then jealously) But I know all the heathen women must have fallen in love with you. Marco: Oh, maybe one or two or so—but I didn’t have time to waste on females. I kept my nose to the grindstone every minute. (Proudly) And I got results. I don’t mind telling you, Donata, I’m worth over two millions! How’s that for keeping my promise? Worth while your waiting, eh? (He slaps her on the back). Donata: Yes, my wonder boy! (Then worriedly) You said there were one or two women? But you were true in spite of them, weren’t you? Marco: I tell you I wouldn’t have married the prettiest girl in Cathay! (This with emphasis. Then abruptly) But never mind any other girl. (He chucks her under the chin) What I want to know is when this girl is going to marry me? Donata: (softly) Any time! (They hug. The guests group about them kittenishly, pointing and murmuring, "What a romance! What a romance!"). Donata’s Father: (seizing the opportunity) Friends, I takes this opportunity to publicly announce the betrothal of my daughter, Donata, to Marco Polo of this City! (Another wild round of congratulations, kisses, etc.). Marco: (his voice sounding above the hubbub) Let’s eat, friends! (They swirl to their places behind the long table. When they stand their faces can be seen above the piles of food but when they sit they are out of sight) No ceremony among friends. Just pick your chair. All ready? Let’s sit down then! (with one motion they disappear). Voice of Donata’s Father: But, first, before we regale ourselves with your cheer, won’t you address a few words to your old firends and neighbors who have gathered here on this happy occasion? (Applause. Marco is heard espostulating but finally he gives in). Marco: All right, if you’ll promise to go ahead and eat and not wait for me. (His head appears, his expression full of importance. Servants flit about noisly. He coughs and begins with dramatic feeling) My friends and neighbors of old, your generous and wholehearted welcome touches me profoundly. I would I had the gift of oratory to thank you fittingly, but I am a simple man, an ordinary man, I might almost say,—a man of affairs used to dealing in the hard facts of life, a silent man given to deeds not words—(Here he falters fittingly) And so now—forgive my emotion—words fail me—(Here he clears his throat with an important cough and bursts forth into a memorized speech in the grand Chamber of Commerce style) But I’ll be glad to let you have a few instructive facts about the silk industry as we observed it in the Far East, laying especial emphasis upon the keystone of the whole silk business—I refer to the breeding of worms! (A few hungry guests start to eat. Knives and forks and spoons rattle against plates. Soup is heard. Marco strikes a good listening attitude so he will be sure not to miess a word his voice utters and warms to his work) Now, to begin with, there are millions upon millions of capital invested in this industry, millions of contented slaves labor unremittingly millions of hours per annum to obtain the best results in the weaving and dyeing of the finished product, but I don’t hesitate to state that all this activity is relatively unimportant beside the astounding fact that in the production of the raw material there are constantly employed millions upon millions upon millions upon millions of worms! One Voice: (rather muffled by roast pig) Hear! (But the rest are all absorbed in eating and a perfect clamor of knives and forks resounds. Marco begins again but this time the clamor is too great, his words are lost, only the one he lays such emphasis upon can be distinguished). Marco: Millions!...millions!...millions!...millions! Kublai: (who from the height of his golden throne, crystal in hand, has watched all this with fascinated disgust while Chu-Yin has sat down to read again, now turns away with a shudder of loathing—and, in spite of himself, a shadow of a smile—and lets the crystal fall from his hand and shatter into bits with a loud report. Instantly there is darkness and from high up in the darkness Kublai’s voice speaking with a pitying scorn.) The Word became their flesh, they say. Now all is flesh! And can their flesh become the Word again? DARKNESS |
Grand Throne Room in the Imperial Palace at
Cambaluc, about two years later. The walls tower majestically in shadow,
their elaborate detail blurred into a background of half-darkness. Kublai sits at the top of his throne, cross-legged in the posture of an idol, motionless, wrapped in contemplation. He wears a simple white robe without adornment of any sort. A brilliant light floods down upon him in one concentrated ray. His eyes are fixed on a catafalque, draped in heavy white silk, which stands in the center of the room, emphasized by another downpouring shaft of light. Chu-Yin stands on the level below, on Kublai’s left. On the main floor are the nobles and people of the court, grouped as in Act One, Scene Six. There is a long pause clamorous with the pealing of the thousands of bells in the city, big and little, near and far. Every figure in the room is as motionless as the Kaan himself. Their eyes are kept on him with the ardent humility and respect of worship. Behind their impassive faces, one senses a tense expectancy of some sign from the throne. At last, Kublai makes a slight but imperious motion of command with his right hand. Immediately the women all turn with arms outstretched toward the catafalque. Their voices rise together in a long, rhythmic wail of mourning; their arms with one motion move slowly up; their voices attain a prolonged note of unbearable poignancy; their heads are thrown back, their arms appeal to Heaven in one agonized gesture of despair. Here the Kaan makes the same barely perceptible sign of command again. The voices are instantly silenced. With one motion, the women throw themselves prostrate on the floor. The bells, except for one slow deep-toned one in the palace itself, are almost instantly hushed. At the same instant, from outside, at first faint, but growing momentarily in volume, comes the sound of funeral music. A moment later the funeral procession enters. The men sink to the cross-legged position of prayer, their heads bowed. First come the musicians, nine in number, men in robes of bright red. They are followed by the chorus of nine singers, five men and four women, all of them aged, with bent bodies, their thin, cracked voices accompanying the music in queer, breaking waves of lamentation. These are masked, the men with a male mask of grief, the women with a female. All are dressed in deep black with white edging to their robes. After them comes a troupe of young girls and boys, dressed in white with black edging, moving slowly backward in a gliding, interweaving dance pattern. Their faces are not masked but are fixed in a disciplined, traditional expression of bewildered, uncomprehending grief that is like a mask. They carry silver censers which they swing in unison toward the corpse of the princess Kukachin, carried on a bier directly behind them on the shoulders of eight princes of the blood in black armor. Accompanying the bier, one at each corner, are four priests—the foremost two, a Confucian and a Taoist, the latter two, a Buddhist and a Moslem. Each walks with bent head reading aloud to himself from his Holy Book. The princes lift the bier of Kukachin to the top of the catafalque. Her body is wrapped in a winding sheet of deep blue, a jeweled golden head-dress is on her black hair, her face is white and clear as a statue’s. The young boys and girls place their smoking censers about the catafalque, the incense ascending in clouds about the Princess as if it were bearing her soul with it. The music and the singing cease as the dancers, singers, and musicians form on each side, and to the rear, of the catafalque and sink into attitudes of prayer. Kublai speaks to the priests in a voice of command in which is weariness and disbelief. Kublai: Peace! She does not need your prayers. She was a prayer! (With one motion they shut their books, raise their heads and stare before them in silence. Kublai continues—sadly) Can words recall life to her beauty? (To the priest of Tao) Priest of Tao, will you conquer death by your mystic Way? Priest of Tao: (bowing his head in submission—fatalistically) Which is the greater evil, to possess or to be without? Death is. Chorus: (in an echo of vast sadness) Death is. Kublai: (to the Confucian) Follower of Confucius, the Wise, have you this wisdom? Priest of Confucius: (slowly) Before we know life, how can we know death? (Then as the Taoist, submissively) Death is. Chorus: (as before) Death is. Kublai: (to the Buddhist priest) Worshiper of Buddha, can your self-overcoming overcome that greatest overcomer of self? Buddhist priest: This is a thing which no god can bring about: That what is subject to death should not die. (Then as the others, submissively) Death is. Chorus: (as before) Death is. Kublai: (wearily) And your answer, priest of Islam? Priest of Islam: It is the will of Allah! (Submissively) Death is. Chorus: Death is. Death is. Death is. (Their voices die away). Kublai: (after a pause) What is death? (A long pause. His eyes rest in loving contemplation on the body of Kukachin: Finally he speaks tenderly to her with a sad smile) Girl whom we call dead, whose beauty is even in death more living than we, smile with infinite silence upon our speech, smile with infinite forbearance upon our wisdom, smile with infinite remoteness upon our sorrow, smile as a star smiles! (His voice appears about to break. A muffled sound of sobbing comes from the prostrate women. Kublai regains control over his weakness and rises to his feet—with angry self-contempt) No more! That is for poets! (With over-stressed arrogance—assertively) I am the Great Kaan! (Everyone in the room rises with one motion of assertion). Chorus: (accompanied by a clangor of brass from the musicians—recite with discordant vigor) Greatest of the Great!Kublai: (silences them by an imperious gesture—and now even the great palace bell is stilled—half-mockingly but assertively) The Son of Heaven? Then I should know a prayer. Sovereign of the World? Then I command the World to pray! (With one motion all sink to the position of prayer) In silence! Prayer is beyond words! Contemplate the eternal life of Life! Pray thus! (He himself sinks to the position of prayer—a pause—then slowly) In silence—for one concentrated moment—be proud of life! Know in your heart that the living of life can be noble! Know that the dying of death can be noble! Be exalted by life! Be inspired by death! Be humbly proud! Be proudly grateful! Be immortal because life is immortal. Contain the harmony of womb and grave within you! Possess life as a lover—then sleep requited in the arms of death! If you awake, love again! If you sleep on, rest in peace! Who knows which? What does it matter? It is nobler not to know! (A pause of silence. He rises to his feet. With one motion all do likewise. Kublai sits back on his cushions again, withdrawing into contemplation. The Mongol chronicler comes forward to fulfill his function of chanting the official lament for the dead. He declaims in a high wailing voice accompanied by the musicians and by the chorus who sway rhythmically and hum a rising and falling mourning accompaniment). Chronicler: We lament the shortness of life. Life at its longest is brief enough. Too brief for the wisdom of joy, too long for the knowledge of sorrow. Sorrow becomes despair when death comes to the young, untimely. Oh, that her beauty could live again, that her youth could be born anew. Our Princess was young as Spring, she was beautiful as a bird or flower. Cruel when Spring is smitten by Winter, when birds are struck dead in full song, when the budding blossom is blighted! Alas that our Princess is dead, she was the song of songs, the perfume of perfumes, the perfect one! Our sobs stifle us, our tears wet the ground, our lamentations sadden the wind from the West. (Bows submissively—speaks) Yet we must bow humbly before the Omnipotent. Chorus: We must be humble. Chronicler: Against Death all Gods are powerless. Chorus: All Gods are powerless. (Their voices die into silence). Kublai: (after a pause—wearily) Leave her in peace. Go. (The Court leaves silently at his command in a formal, expressionless order. The four priests go first, beginning to pray silently again. They are followed by the nobles and officials with their women coming after. Finally the young boys and girls take up their censers and dance their pattern out backward, preceded by the musicians. Only the chorus remain, grouped in a semicircle behind the catafalque, motionless, and Chu-Yin who stays at the left hand of Kublai. The music fades away. Kublai takes his eyes from the dead girl with a sigh of bitter irony). Kublai: oh, Chu-Yin, my Wise Friend, was the prayer I taught them wisdom? Chu-Yin: It was the wisdom of pride. It was thy wisdom. Chorus: (echoing sadly) Thy wisdom. Kublai: Was it not truth? Chu-Yin: It was the truth of power. It was thy truth. Chorus: (as before) Thy truth. Kublai: My pride, my power? My wisdom, my truth? For me there remains only—her truth! (Then after staring at Kukachin for a second, bitterly) Her truth! She died for love of a fool! Chu-Yin: No. She loved love. She died for beauty. Kublai: your words are hollow echoes of the brain. Do not wound me with wisdom. Speak to my heart! (Sadly—his eyes again on Kukachin) Her little feet danced away the stamp of armies. Her smile made me forget the servile grin on the face of the World. In her eyes’ mirror I watched myself live protected from life by her affection—a simple old man dying contentedly a little, day after pleasant day. Chu-Yin: (bowing—compassionately) Then weep, old man. Be humble and weep for your child. The old should cherish sorrow. (He bows again and goes out silently). Kublai: (after a pause, gets up and descending from his throne, slowly approaches the catafalque, speaking to the dead girl softly as he does so—with a trembling smile) I think you are hiding your eyes, Kukachin. You are a little girl again. You are playing hide and seek. You are pretending. Did we not once play such games together, you and I? You have made your face still, you have made your face cold, you have set your lips in a smile so remote—you are pretending even that you are dead! (He is very near her now. His voice breaks—more and more intensely) Let us stop playing! It is late. It is time you were asleep. Open your eyes and laugh! Laugh now that the game is over. Take the blindfold from my dim eyes. Whisper your secret in my ear. I—I am dead and you are living! Weep for me, Kukachin! Weep for the dead! (He stretches his arms out to her beseechingly—pauses, standing beside the body, staring down at her; then, after a moment, he passes his hand over her face—tremblingly—with a beautiful tenderness of grief) So, little Kukachin—so, Little Flower—you have come back—they could not keep you—you were too homesick—you wanted to return—to gladden my last days— (He no longer tries to control his grief. He sobs like a simple old man, bending and kissing his granddaughter on the forehead—with heart-breaking playfulness) I bid you welcome home, Little Flower! I bid you welcome home! (He weeps, his tears falling on her calm white face). CURTAIN |
The play is over. The lights come up brilliantly
in the theatre. In an aisle seat in the first row a man rises, conceals
a yawn in his palm, stretches his legs as if they had become cramped by
too long an evening, takes his hat from under the seat and starts to go
out slowly with the others in the audience. But although there is nothing
out of the ordinary in his actions, his appearance excites general comment
and surprise for he is dressed as a Venetian merchant of the later Thirteenth
Century. In fact, it is none other than Marco Polo himself, looking a bit
sleepy, a trifle puzzled, and not a little irritated as his thoughts, in
spite of himself, cling for a passing moment to the play just ended. He
appears quite unaware of being unusual and walks in the crowd without self-consciousness,
very much as one of them. Arrived in the lobby his face begins to clear
of all disturbing memories of what had happened on the stage. The noise,
the lights of the streets, recall him at once to himself. Impatiently he
waits for his car, casting a glance here and there at faces in the groups
around him, his eyes impersonally speculative, his bearing stolid with
the dignity of one who is sure of his place in the world. His car, a luxurious
limousine, draws up at the curb. He gets in briskly, the door is slammed,
the car edges away into the traffic and Marco Polo, with a satisfied sigh
at the sheer comfort of it all, resumes his life. THE END |