Opening
SANCTUARY
A BIRD MASQUE
“_Herkneth these blisful briddes how they singe; Ful is mine herte of revel and solas!_” CHAUCER
SANCTUARY
A Bird Masque
BY PERCY MACKAYE
With a Prelude by ARVIA MACKAYE
Illustrated with Photographs in Color and Monotone by ARNOLD GENTHE
NEW YORK FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1913, 1914, by PERCY MACKAYE
All rights reserved
THE·PLIMPTON·PRESS NORWOOD·MASS·U·S·A
TO
ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES
‘WILD NATURE’S HUMAN SYMPATHIZER’ IN ADMIRATION OF HIS DAUNTLESS SERVICE TO THE BIRDS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
NOTE REGARDING PERFORMANCE AND PUBLIC READING
Requests for permission to perform or read publicly this Bird Masque having been received from a great many quarters, the following information is here given for those desiring such permission:
The Masque is copyrighted in the United States and countries of the Copyright Union, and all rights are reserved.
The purpose of the Masque is to be of public use, so that all adequate presentations of it are welcome. To this end the special conditions of performance or public reading should in each case be communicated direct to the author, in care of the publisher.
No performances may be given without such direct communication, and permission thus first obtained.
_As the publication of this text is designed to serve the definite cause for which it was written, performances must be, in some degree at least, for the benefit of Wild Bird Conservation._
_Music for the lyrics “The Hermit Thrush” and the three songs of Quercus has been composed by Frederick S. Converse, and is published by the H. W. Gray Company, 2 West 45th Street, New York._
A bird bath, specially designed for use in bird sanctuaries and gardens, with plastic groupings of characters in the original cast of this Masque, has been executed by Mrs. Louis Saint-Gaudens, Cornish, New Hampshire, post office Windsor, Vermont.
_The four photographs in color, as well as those in black and white, which illustrate this volume were taken by Dr. Arnold Genthe of enactors in the Masque, as first performed by members of the Cornish Colony and the Meriden Bird Club at Meriden, New Hampshire, September 12, 1913._
Foreword
This Masque was written for the dedication of the bird sanctuary of the Meriden Bird Club of Meriden, New Hampshire, where it was first performed on the night of September twelfth, 1913. The text was composed, the lyrics set to music, the masque rehearsed, costumed and acted, within the brief space of a month. Its production came about by a spontaneous and glad cooperation of artists, neighbors, lovers of nature, imbued with a deep feeling in common—concern for the welfare of wild birds. In this important concern its enactors were happily encouraged by the sympathetic presence of the President of the United States and the participation of his family.
Swift and spontaneous as its production was, however, the masque in its reasons for being was not unpremeditated. It took its origin from two important sources, rarely, if ever, associated—nature study, and the art of the theatre.
The union of these was its raison d’etre.
However tentative its realization, it stands none the less as a pioneering suggestion of real moment to those two potent influences upon our national life. As such it has seemed worth while to present to the public, and to make clear the suggestion which it illustrates, however sketchily.
From a recent volume by the writer on “The Civic Theatre, in Relation to the Redemption of Leisure,” I quote the following paragraphs upon “Nature Symbols,” as they apply directly to this subject:
“The relation of the theatre’s art to the naturalist’s vocation is probably not obvious to the man on the street. That is because the commercial theatre relates itself to so few of the pursuits of science outside of Broadway interests. The civic theatre would do otherwise.
“Aristophanes symbolized the birds for the purposes of Greek satire. The costuming of his play in Athens probably expressed no direct attribution to the science of ornithology. Yet its attribution to the Greek race’s intimate love of Nature was as spontaneous as the symbolizing of flowers in the capitals of their temple columns. The movement to-day for the conservation of our birds and their more intimate study might well take on significant, lovely forms of symbolic expression in pageants, festivals and the drama of the civic theatre.
“By the same art, the fascinating designs, embossings, colorings, of insect forms could be symbolized in spectacles of astonishing beauty, motivated dramatically to the real and tremendous human relation which that ignored but pestiferous race bears to human society and the state; as witness the movement, involving millions in taxes, for exterminating the gypsy moth and the boll weevil.
“Such implications for art may seem, at first, a far cry from actual possibilities of the theatre; yet thus may the civic theatre directly relate its activities not only to the enthusiasms of naturalists in the fields and woods, but to the inspiring studies of scholars in their laboratories: a cooperation which may soon stultify the popular notion that art and science are divorced in their special aims. The same relation of the theatre’s symbolic art to all the sciences—the discoveries of chemistry, the splendid imaginings of engineering—is implied in their common aim: the bringing of greater joy, beauty, understanding, to our fellow men and women, the people.
“Science represents idea, art its expression; theatrical art its expression in forms best adapted to convened numbers of the people. The forms of popular art, therefore, are limited only by the ideas of man.”
It is thus as an illustration of one of the multiform genres of the civic theatre’s potential art that this little masque has its main significance.
Before the actual establishment of the Civic Theatre among us, the opportunities of the working dramatist to make tangible contributions by his art to its repertory are, of course, very scant and at best groping and experimental. One such as the present may serve, however, to suggest certain immediate, practical possibilities.
If, for instance, every bird sanctuary were to possess its stage and auditorium for bird masques—if every Natural History Museum had its outdoor theatre, equipped to set forth the multitudinous human meanings of its nature exhibits to the crowds that frequent its doors in their hours of leisure—if the directors of every Zoölogical Park were to provide for it a scenic arena, and seek the civic cooperation of the dramatic poet and theatrical expert, to vivify by their art the tremendous life stories of wild nature to the receptive minds of the human thousands convened to listen and behold—by such means, would not the disciples of nature study not simply adopt for their own ends a means of education and publicity a thousandfold more dynamic, imaginative and popular than any of the static means of exhibits, lectures and published volumes on which they now rely: would they not also thereby splendidly assist in enlarging the civic scope of the theatre’s art, still cramped, as for generations, within the walls of speculation and commercialism?
These suggestions speak for themselves.
If this Bird Masque shall help, in the slightest degree, to illustrate them, it will do its ephemeral service in the only permanent sanctuary of men as of birds—imagination.
PERCY MACKAYE.
CORNISH, NEW HAMPSHIRE, October, 1913.
PERSONS OF THE MASQUE[1] in the order of their appearance
QUERCUS, faun
ALWYN, poet
SHY, naturalist
TACITA, dryad
ORNIS, bird spirit
STARK, plume hunter
PARTICIPANTS IN PANTOMIME
Hunter Attendants of Stark
Many species of birds—in human form, garbed symbolically
SCENE
The sylvan glade of a bird sanctuary.
Footnote 1:
The complete programme of the original production of the masque, as first enacted at Meriden, New Hampshire, by members of the Cornish Colony and the Meriden Bird Club, is printed in the AFTERWORD of this volume.
THE PRELUDE
THE PRELUDE
Wandering in the quiet of the bird sanctuary, a little girl hears the voice of a hermit thrush, and meditates this song:
THE SONG
While walking through a lonely wood I heard a lovely voice: A voice so fresh and true and good It made my heart rejoice.
It sounded like a Sunday bell Rung softly in a town, Or like a stream that in a dell Forever trickles down.
It seemed to be a voice of love That always had loved me, So softly it rang out above, So wild and wanderingly.
O Voice, were you a golden dove, Or just a plain gray bird? O Voice, you are my wandering love Lost, yet forever heard.
Passing on deeper into the wood, the little girl thinks dreamily of all wild birds and the wrongs done to them by their human brothers and sisters.
Out of her reverie grows the Masque which follows.
THE MASQUE
THE MASQUE
I
Dawn.
The woods are silent, save for bird pipings.
In the background, verdure of young pines and ancient boles of oaks form the dim-pillared entrance to a forest shrine.
Artfully placed on tree trunk and bough are nest boxes of bark.
On one side stands a low weathercock food-house; on the other, a tall martin-house pole.
In the shade of a great oak glimmers the shallow pool of a bird bath.
Peeping at this from behind the oak, appears, vanishes and appears again the horned head of QUERCUS, a faun.
Stealing forth, QUERCUS approaches the pool, bearing in one hand an enormous pitcher plant.
Peering upward among the boughs, he raises his voice in quaint falsetto, and sings.
QUERCUS
Veery, veery!—vireo! Waxwing wild!—warbler wary! Ori-ori-oriole! Seek our sanctuary! Robin rath, Little tail-twitcher, Drink from my pitcher, Dip in my bath! Dew’s in my bath, Rain’s in my pitcher, Dawn’s in the greenwood eerie: Hither, highhole! Redpoll! Oriole! Vireo!—veery!
[From his pitcher plant QUERCUS pours into the bird bath. Skipping then to a little swinging bird-house, he sprinkles its shelf with seed from a pouch. Here he pauses dreamily; furtively takes out and fingers a pipe; blows a few notes, pauses, starts, puts it quickly away, stoops his ear to the ground, springs away to the oak, and snatches an ivied staff which stands against the trunk. The staff is designed like a martin-house pole in miniature. Placing himself on guard where a foot-path enters the glade, he calls:]
Stand yonder! Hold! who treads beneath my trees?
A VOICE
[Outside.]
A friend.
QUERCUS
A friend to what?
THE VOICE
To Song, and Song’s melodious silences.
QUERCUS
Still enter not. The race of wings reigns in this solitude. No foot may here intrude Without fair passport. Tell me first your name And cause of coming here.
II. QUERCUS. ALWYN
[A YOUNG MAN enters, pausing in the path.]
THE MAN
From hence even now a piping filled mine ear With quaintish memory: familiar, Yet old, it seemed. Long since, I heard the same Lulling to paleness the white morning star Among Sicilian oaks. So here I came To spy upon the piper. Now, methinks, I know him, by those horns and merry winks. —Good morrow, Quercus, the faun!
QUERCUS
Now, by Lord Pan! The poet’s ear and eye still spy me out.— Alwyn, maker of songs—hail to you, master! You!—Can it really be?
ALWYN
It can, And is—by Pan, our ancient pastor! But you, slant shanks, what make you here at dawn?
QUERCUS
Newfangleness! The classic gout Still crooks my knees with the old lyric wine, But now they run new errands.
[Flourishing his staff.]
Lo, the sign Of my new office!
ALWYN
New! What may that be?
QUERCUS
Wood warden of the wild birds’ sanctuary: Janitor of their sylvan temple!—See, My staff acclaims me. Poor Mercutius! Old mythologic nature-faker, He’s out of date with his caduceus. Behold in me A modern science-tutored fairy And practical care-taker— Grand marshal of the martin-house!
ALWYN
[Pointing at QUERCUS’ staff.]
Of that?
QUERCUS
Nay, this, my bard, is but the breviat And little pattern.
[Pointing toward a tall martin-house pole.]
Yonder, you behold The real palace. Through those portals We lure the feathered broods to fold Their wings above the world of thievish mortals.
ALWYN
We—say you? Who are we?
QUERCUS
Myself and my lord master.
ALWYN
And what’s he?
QUERCUS
Nay, if I knew, I should be wiser. He is the fellow of all friendless things, Wild nature’s human sympathizer: In form a man, yet footed so with silence The deer mistake him for their brother; so Swift that, meseems, he borrows the birds’ wings; An eye, that glows and twinks Through noon like twilight’s vesper star; an ear That harks a mile hence The purring of a lynx! I love him, follow, obey him, yet I know Naught of him—but his love.
ALWYN
Not even his name?
QUERCUS
Yea, what men call him by; And he is like the same. Men call him Master Shy.
ALWYN
Ah, Shy, the naturalist. Why, he is my good crony. If he wist To rhyme he’d be a better bard than I. How do you serve him?
QUERCUS
I’m crew to his Jason! I multiply myself for rare adventures, And serve his Ship of Birds as carpenter, Box-joiner, bath-cementer, mason, Seed-storer, water-carrier, Worm-steward, nest-ward, treehouse thatcher, Man-chaser and mouse-catcher.
ALWYN
Nay, do you please in all?
QUERCUS
I carry to his call, And never yet have earned his censures For botch or shirk.
ALWYN
I prithee show me of your handiwork. What’s here—this little box With paddle wings?
QUERCUS
One of our weather-cocks. Look you, it swings: So when, in winter, the white tempest blows, Here sit the birds at breakfast ’mid the snows, With porch turned ever to the cosy side. In that cold time, my master Shy Brings more devices to provide Bird-comfort: Food-bells full of millet We place in covert nooks, and tie Our knitted suet bags on many a bough Of pine and larch. And I must plough Through many a drift, to crack the frozen rillet For little beaks to drink.
ALWYN
By Phœbus, now Is this in sooth mine old Sicilian faun, That wont of yore to dally On violet-scented lawn With lily-crownéd nymphs in lovelorn valley! What modern change is here? What magic—
QUERCUS
Hush!
[With lowered voice, he looks around warily.]
I am not always quite so modern! At times—at times—as when just now You heard me pipe below this bough— I slip my master’s traces, And slink by paths untrodden To lovelorn, lush Arcadian places, Where Philomel still lingers, Plaining her ancient pity, And there I fetch forth this With idling fingers, And, pouting on its lip my kiss, I pipe some dulcet, old, bucolic ditty.
[Taking out his pipe, he plays again a few languorous strains, but breaks off abruptly.]
Whist! Here he comes.—It grates upon his ear.
III. SHY. QUERCUS. ALWYN
SHY
[Enters, carrying a nest-box.]
A hermit thrush is pleasanter to hear.
[He greets ALWYN.]
Good morning, friend! How comes it you are caught Walking so early? Poets, I had thought, Salute the sunrise only in their song.
ALWYN
[Smiling.]
Fie, then! You do us wrong: We rhyming slugabeds Walk with Aurora at our pillows’ heads, For dreamers can see dawn rise in the dark. Poets are owls that elegize the lark.
SHY
And now you’ll talk to me of nightingales! Three birds exhaust your bard’s vocabulary: Larks, nightingales and owls! High time, you see, To wean this fellow from your piper’s tales, And teach him craftily To build our hungry birds a homelike sanctuary.
ALWYN
[Patting QUERCUS’ shoulder.]
Good Shy, no schooling could so much relieve My modern apprehensions: Tutor him, Hoof, head and limb, And let me humbly hearken. By your leave, God shall provide the dawn, And you the tutelage, and I—the faun.
QUERCUS
Waiting, my masters!
ALWYN
Give your pipe to me!
QUERCUS
[Holding it behind him.]
Must I give up my pipe? The sound is sweet.
ALWYN
Truth is more sweet than melody, And wisdom than melodious words. When you have learned to greet With their own mystic speech all living birds And minister to their necessity, This pipe shall be restored, and we will make Together a new song, more sweet for knowledge’ sake.
[In pantomime, he demands and receives the pipe from QUERCUS. SHY then addresses QUERCUS.]
SHY
This nest-box: Nail it on the barest bough Of that tall maple. Place it well, Like yonder one.
QUERCUS
Right, master. Now!
SHY
Soft, soft! Not so pell-mell! You’ll scare that nuthatch at her nesting. First tell me of your other questing— Those errands which I sent you yesterday.
QUERCUS
That cowbird, master,—
SHY
Did she lay Her egg?
QUERCUS
Indeed she did, the pest! She laid it in a redstart’s nest; But up I poked my nose in, nabbed it And cracked it cursory: Good Mama Redstart now can hatch her nursery Without a big stepchild to smother her chicks.
SHY
Old Deacon Rathburne’s tom-cat, is he—dead?
QUERCUS
What, Tom, that dabbled in gore the wee goldfinches?
[He nods shrewdly.]
Wild huckleberries are growing at his head! That almost got you in the fix: Old Deacon saw me do it, blabbed it, And Missus sicked her dachshund at my heels.
[Grinning.]
Eh, master, it’s your shoe that pinches!
SHY
When cats invade bird-temples, boy, it feels Good to be wicked. But tell me of our forest planting ground: What shrubs and creepers have you found And marked, to make our shelter thicket?
QUERCUS
Why, sir, to give it Birdblithesomeness, I’ve chose Shad bush, blue cornel, withe rod, privet, Red osier, raspberry, wild rose, Black haw, and dangleberry.
SHY
A proper list! What trees—deciduous?
QUERCUS
Box-elder and bird cherry, White ash, gray birch and cockspur thorn.
ALWYN
What make you thus? Some sylvan pound, to stalk an unicorn?
SHY
Good poet, whist! No more mythology. Your faun is learning better. Truce!
ALWYN
Most humbly, my apology!
SHY
So, Quercus: and what evergreens?
QUERCUS
White spruce, Red cedar, balsam fir, and Norway pine.
SHY
Good, fellow! Fine! In such a shelter-tangle we can hatch Ten thousand nestlings. Run, now! Catch That squirrel there, before He makes his call at your new nest-box door.
QUERCUS
[Skipping to the maple tree.]
Right, master!—Heigh, Sir Alwyn—ho! Just see now what a jack-o’-trades your Quercus is! When Master Shy discharges me, I’ll go And rent nine fairy-rings, and start three circuses!
[Climbing among the branches, he disappears, whistling bird-notes.]
IV. ALWYN. SHY
ALWYN
Shy—honest friend, your hand once more!
SHY
Heartily! Welcome to this wood.
ALWYN
Do you recall how once we stood Here, and discoursed of songs I made of yore— Dryads and poet’s dreams?
SHY
Yes, I recall I wondered at them all.
ALWYN
First—as to-day—you smiled Your incredulity of my quaint creed, Till soon, in further converse, we agreed In nature’s heart our faiths are reconciled. For both of us seek nature’s fellowship, The common language of all living things: I—more in music of the human lip, You—in the whirr of beaks and wings. So both—craving the beautiful— Still worship the same shrine and oracle: This temple, and its dryad—Tacita.
SHY
I will confess Of all the nymphs in your Arcadia I worship her Alone.
ALWYN
Because her moods are numberless I do the same. Between the heart of Man And Nature’s heart, which I do name God Pan, She stands and moves—divine interpreter, Translating with her shy and pagan dances Our world life and its trances.
SHY
She is, in truth, The sylvan priestess of this sanctuary.
ALWYN
[Eagerly.]
What if, through her as intermediary, And after thousand ages of uncouth Estrangement,—what, I say, if we Might find through her the key To comprehend the native speech of birds, And hold communion with them in our human words! Would not that be a modern consummation Nobler than fable?
SHY
Almost, I would have said, we might be able, If it were not for one who scorns this shrine And violates the beauty of creation, Marring all contemplative quietude.
ALWYN
Whom do you speak of?
SHY
One whom the red wine Of slaughter has made drunk, and the false glister Of dollars dazzled with blind arrogance. Close by this wood He plies a bold, sinister Traffic in wings and plumage. Not by chance But calculated orgies, he commits His venal murders, slits The bridal plumes from backs of mating birds, And leaves the nested broods Unhatched or starveling. So he girds His loins, and like the Patagonian Displays his feathered trophies: not a man Swayed by ecstatic moods, Nor even to equip A hardy sportsmanship; Not so: he slaughters birds for stocks and bonds, And when we challenge, smiling he responds: “Mine is a lawful market, where fine ladies pay For plumes, to wear on Sabbaths and Christ’s Easter day.”
ALWYN
What is this desecrator’s name?
SHY
Stark, the plume-hunter.
ALWYN
Surely he dares not Track his defenseless game Here to this hallowed spot!
SHY
No place is holy to unhallowed minds: He covets gain, and grasps it where he finds.
ALWYN
Still I have faith That Tacita, in her serenity, Is mightier than he.
SHY
Ah, nature’s quiet mood is delicate And crushes like a flower.
ALWYN
Faith without works is vain, the Prophet saith. So now, while nature muses in the thrush, Here let us sit this hour, And meditate On Tacita, till meditation shall create Its own shy image.—Hush!
[They sit upon a log and listen.]
V. TACITA. ALWYN. SHY
[Dreamily, the fluting of birds sounds in the forest. Dimly from the background TACITA appears. With steps of reverie, she approaches, and pauses before them. ALWYN looks up and, touching SHY’S arm, speaks low.]
Tacita! It is she!
SHY
Speak to her—you.
Alwyn
Dryad, and spirit of serenity, Whose steps have fallen timeful as the dew Upon our pathway, intervene For us with that still-undiscovered queen— Ornis, who reigns among your ancient boughs Spirit of birds and sister of our race, Man. Stir your spell-enchanted feet, And by their moods arouse Her hidden grace To heed us, and hold speech from realms unseen.
[To mysterious music, TACITA treads a dance of invocation, appealing in pantomime to the unseen spirit of wings, which flits and sings and broods in the boughs above her. ALWYN and SHY watch her, rapt and expectant.
Suddenly a sharp gun-shot sounds, shivering the music, which ceases. Through the boughs, a bird falls fluttering to the earth.]
VI. ORNIS. ALWYN. SHY
[With a gesture of startled wildness, TACITA breaks abruptly from her rhythmic motions, and flees into the wood, while simultaneously from the other side there enters, swift but staggering, ORNIS—a maiden, garbed symbolically as a bird. On one of her wing-like sleeves blood shows. With shrill, melodious cry, she flutters forward.]
ORNIS
Ee-ó-lee! O-rée-o! Sanctuary!
[Swaying, she falls to the ground. ALWYN and SHY spring toward her.]
ALWYN
Help, Shy! She falls!
SHY
[At ORNIS’ side.]
Wing-struck! Here’s blood.
ALWYN
That shot?
SHY
The gun of Stark.
[Seeking to lift her.]
Up, birdling! Here is Shy.
ORNIS
[Droops, moaning.]
O-rée-o!
SHY
Quick! Bring Quercus.
ALWYN
[Hastening off.]
In a jot.
SHY
[Soothingly strokes ORNIS’ arm and shoulder.]
So—so! Dew water soon makes well. So—so!
ORNIS
[Moans dazedly.]
Ir-re-o! P’tee!
QUERCUS
[Reëntering with ALWYN.]
Here, master!
SHY
[Pointing.]
Water!—There!
ALWYN
The bird bath!
QUERCUS
[Dipping his plant pitcher, hastens with it to SHY.]
Coming!
SHY
Sprinkle.
QUERCUS
[Sprinkling water upon ORNIS, sings gaily.]
Ó-ree-o! When shawes ben sheen and shraddes full fair, And leaves both large and long, ’Tis merry walking in the fair forést To hear the small birds’ song!
[ORNIS revives.]
SHY
[Assisting her.]
Now, gently!
ALWYN
[Bending over her, calls low.]
Ornis!—Sister!
ORNIS
Who calls? Where Am I?
ALWYN
In sanctuary. Have no fear.
ORNIS
[Looking from one to the other.]
Ah, me! But what are these?
SHY
Your brothers, dear.
ORNIS
My brothers—they are birds. But you are Man.
ALWYN
Through Tacita you know us now; we can Speak to each other. Ornis!—Hark.
ORNIS
[Rising in glad wonder.]
At last!— At last!
ALWYN
A thousand ages—they are past, And dumbness, like a dream, Sinks with them into sleep. We are awake, And each to each Can bid good-morning in our common speech.
ORNIS
How sweet and strange! Are we indeed awaking From callous slumber and old wrong? So sorrowfully long The hand of Man has wrought my birds’ heartbreaking!— Was it a savage dream? Methought I sat on Morning’s golden beam And sang of God’s wild gladness: High and higher I showered His temple woods with ecstasy; When suddenly The earth screamed thunder, and a singeing fire Shattered my wing. I fell.— Groping in flight, my feet stuck fast In smear of lime; swift from below A tangling net was cast Where, panting upward, a black hell Of bloody mouths barked under me; And there beside them—oh, There watched, with eyes of wanton cruelty, A man—bright clothed in many-colored plumes Of my dead sisters. “Save me from their dooms,” I cried, “O Sanctuary!”
ALWYN
And you woke With us, your brothers—healed.
ORNIS
[With wonder.]
Oh, have you heard What now I spoke? And can we answer truly, word for word?
[Curiously.]
Alwyn!
ALWYN
You know my name?
ORNIS
[Turning eagerly from one to the other.]
Shy!
SHY
[Smiling.]
No mistake!
ORNIS
Quercus!
QUERCUS
[Skipping with a bow.]
Your birdship’s faun!
ORNIS
[Laughing joyously.]
Good-morning, brothers!
ALWYN
When have you known us?
ORNIS
Many an age and long! No syllable has bubbled in your song But I have blown it first from yonder trees:
[To SHY.]
No brooding-place of yours—but I was in the breeze;
[To QUERCUS.]
And ever to your whistle I pipe the last note from the nearest thistle.
[TACITA appears remotely.]
O beautiful my brothers! O dryad dear, I thank you! In your dawn, How brave it is to speak with Man and Faun As mates and fellows. Quick! Fetch me still others.
[A crashing resounds in the thicket. TACITA disappears.]
Who’s coming now?
SHY
Still others—our fellow man.
ORNIS
I hear a breaking bough.
ALWYN
Kind hearts and cruel are one clan.
ORNIS
Hark! Surely ’tis some strange distress. Come, brothers, let us look: It may be one who needs our friendliness. Come with me!
ALWYN
[Calling off scene.]
Stand there! Stay beyond the brook.
QUERCUS
[With excited gestures.]
Back, ho!
ORNIS
[Suddenly recoiling with a cry.]
Ah, save me!
[She flies to their protection. QUERCUS also scampers back fearfully, and hides.]
VII. STARK. ORNIS. ALWYN. SHY
[Enter STARK, in garb of a hunter. He wears a tawny leopard’s skin, and his head is gorgeously plumed. Behind him, two panting dogs are held in leash by attendants. STARK rushes toward ORNIS, passes her oblivious, and seizes up the fallen bird.]
STARK
Bagged!—Hold off the dogs!
[The ATTENDANTS withdraw with the hounds.]
ORNIS
[As STARK grasps the bird, clutches her own side in pain.]
Ee-ó-lo!
STARK
A rare beauty!—Bah, one wing Shot-torn! Well, well, we’ll patch the thing.
Madame La Mode’s a tricksy milliner.
[He thrusts the bird into his game pouch. Turning to leave, he sees ALWYN and SHY, and greets them gaily.]
Halloa! Fine hunting weather!
SHY
[Quietly.]
Sir, Here is No Hunting.
STARK
[With a laugh.]
Pipe that to the frogs!
SHY
This ground is sanctuary.
STARK
And what’s that?
SHY
A place held sacred from the hunter’s trail.
STARK
Why, man, I am no hunter, and that’s flat. I only plume myself—to trim a hat. Besides, I shot outside your pale; And now
[Touching his pouch, he winks.]
the game is bagged.
SHY
You bag the spangle And lose the spirit.—Sir, here is no place To preach or wrangle Our creeds. I am a student, not a teacher. So I would only learn of you: what joy Urges you to destroy So gracious, fair And innocent a fellow-creature As yonder?
[He points at ORNIS.]
STARK
[Looking.]
Where?
ALWYN
Our sister, who stands there And dumbly pleads for all her race— And ours.
STARK
By Christ in Hades, My eyes see nothing but a brace Of popinjays, who pipe to me of ladies And show me—no one.
ALWYN
Look more near. Speak to him, Ornis!—Listen, now!
ORNIS
[Drawing back in dread.]
O-rée-o!
STARK
I am listening.
ALWYN
Did you hear No voice?
STARK
I heard a bird call from that bough.
QUERCUS
[Peeping toward SHY from the bushes.]
Have at him, master!
SHY
[To STARK.]
Did you spy That fellow’s horns there, when he drew back Into the bush?
STARK
I saw A stirring in that staghorn sumach, And caught a rabbit’s eye.— What are these crazy quizzings? Pshaw! Good day to you!
ALWYN
Stay yet! Once more look yonder, where my comrade stands, Turning to take the gentle, outreached hands Of our shy sister: Can you see No timid form beside him?
STARK
Perfectly My eyes discern A man, who peers within the morning mist, And murmurs to the air, And smiles, as if he held sweet converse there. In short, I see a sentimentalist. I am not of that ilk. [Calling]—Ho, there!—Holá! Wait with my dogs: I’m coming.
ALWYN
Stay, and learn What we ourselves have only learned through quiet Listening. So long, in rampant haste, Your dizzy soul has chased The spinning dollar sign which stars your zodiac, That you have lost the track Of paths serene, and pace God’s world in riot Of blinding gold. Pause, for this little space! Put off that blood-emblazed regalia Gorgeous with death, And draw with me one meditative breath Here in the temple of cool Tacita.
STARK
[Who has listened with half-amused curiosity.]
Ah—Tacita? And who may that be, friend?
ALWYN
One lovelier than you have yet set eyes on.
SHY
Go, Quercus: Pray our mistress to attend.
[QUERCUS goes out.]
STARK
Mistress! Is she a maid?—and lovely, too? And may this wonder dawn on my horizon If I remain?
ALWYN
Remain—to meditate!
STARK
Why, now, you stir my fancies. In truth, ’tis early still, and little to do This hour. Come, I will wait And watch with you. But mind! The nymph must be More lovely than my eyes did ever see!
ALWYN
With loveliness more deep than eyes discover.
STARK
So, ’tis a bargain, then?
ALWYN
Sit by me here; And if your musings cause no fear, You shall behold her in her secret dances.
STARK
By Hercules! I’m half prepared to love her!
[He sits on the log beside ALWYN. ORNIS still stands apart, under SHY’S protection. QUERCUS enters, beckoning backward into the wood.]
VIII. TACITA. ALWYN. ORNIS. STARK. (SHY. QUERCUS.)
ALWYN
Now, Tacita, shy pagan nymph, appear!
[TACITA enters from her shrine of greenery, and pauses before them.]
Spirit, unblind this man! Delusions blur Inward his sight. He is a murderer, Yet knows not he is such. Unseal The fountains of his vision, and reveal Yonder the sister spirit, whom so long His blind heart strove to wrong— Ornis: Reveal, and let him speak with her!
[Soft music sounds, various and elusive in its rhythmic themes. TACITA approaches STARK, and weaves about him a dance of revelation, lulling, charming, luring him by the appeal of numberless wing-swayings and bird-dartings, for which the music suggests the song-notes. During her dance, STARK rises, bewildered, and is gradually lured and led by her toward ORNIS, before whom—at the consummation of the dance—he stands, staring.]
STARK
[Rising, speaks to the music.]
O twilight—holy dusk—dawn twitterings! How far, how dim and hollow You darkle over me: Wings, wings! swift wings, shy wings, eternal wings! Where shall I follow? Ah, joy—jubilant melody— And morning! Joy—I follow! I dream, and drink from your immortal springs!
[TACITA disappears. STARK beholds ORNIS.]
IX. STARK. ORNIS. (ALWYN. QUERCUS. SHY.)
STARK
What are you?
ORNIS
[Appealing with half-fearful affection.]
Brother!—brother!
STARK
[With sudden cry and gesture.]
Ha, my net! The shy bird shall be captured ’live!
[From his shoulder he looses the net, and flings it over ORNIS, seizing the meshes.]
Now, Joy, I hold you fast!
ORNIS
[Struggling.]
Ee-ó-lee-o!
SHY
[Extricating her.]
Not yet!
ALWYN
[Seizing STARK.]
Untamed, and still unshamed! Will you destroy The wings that raise you? Sister, speak to him!
ORNIS
My brothers—all of you! Oh, wage not war Because of me. I fear not. Stark, you dim The brightness of our union, greeting so Your sister.
STARK
[Dropping his net.]
Sister?
ORNIS
Hunt no more With lime and net: Your love shall hold me faster; For I am Ornis.
STARK
[Fascinated.]
Ornis!
ORNIS
Dear my master! Do you not know me? I am she Whom first, beneath the dark, ancestral tree, You rose upon your feet to hearken to. By me you grew To song and freedom. Round your olden feasts You watched my circling flights, whereby your priests Proclaimed their omens and their oracles; My cranes announced your victories, my storks Fed your hearth-fires, my silver-throated gulls And golden hawks Saved many your sea-towns from sore pestilence; And my sweet night bird tuned your poets’ shells To lull sad lovers in languorous asphodels; Yet all my influence Shone dimmer than my beauty: my bright plumes Lured you to squander them, till, in the fumes Of greed, your heart forgot to cherish me, And sold me unto death and slavery.— Yet, master, as you will: Lo, I am Ornis, and I love you still!
STARK
[With altered tone of yearning.]
Yet—yet it seems I never heard your voice Till now; nor ever understood Till now; nor paused, as now in this still wood, To tremble and rejoice At greeting you, my sister. I am stunned, And wait to comprehend this wonder.
ORNIS
Ah, You never prayed before to Tacita! Your feet have shunned Her gracious paths, yet only she Can lead and show my brother Man to me.
STARK
[Glancing at his gun.]
Why, then,—why have I brought this instrument Of murder here? What black intent Clouded my mind with blood?
[Flinging it from him.]
Out of my hands!—My sister, can it be That still you soar above my sanguine flood Of passion, and forgive? Though yet I kill, Oh, is it true indeed—you love me still?
ORNIS
Ha, put me to the test! Show me the field that breeds your harvest pest Of chinch or weevil, Where all the blossoms wither with strange evil, Or where, in filmy tents, The hairy creepers gorge in regiments Your budding apple boughs; Show your ancestral elms Gaunt limbed with leprosy, which overwhelms Their green old age in death; Or those swift locust clouds, whose breath Blasts the ripe loveliness of Spring; Show these, and more Than these, and cry on Ornis! She shall bring— From hill and shore And plain—her wingèd flocks and warbling broods, And swinge away their deadly multitudes.— If service be true love, I love you, brother.
ALWYN
[Drawing near.]
And for her sake, so we will love each other.
[He takes STARK’S right hand.]
SHY
[Taking his left.]
A greenwood partnership!
STARK
[Pressing their hands.]
Thanks!
SHY
[Whispering to the faun.]
Quercus, run!
QUERCUS
I skip, I gambol, master. Ha! I have a tale to tell to Tacita!
[He leaps away.]
ORNIS
[As STARK tears off his headdress of plumes.]
And those—?
STARK
For these my heart shall build a fire Here at this shrine:
[He hangs the headdress on a tree.]
And here, as on a pyre, I place them, with this pouch, which hides The victims of my blind desire. There, at sad cost, I let them tell my pain—the votive part Of one long lost, Who now has found himself in nature’s heart.— Ornis, my trail divides: There lie the ashes of the thing I was. Henceforth, I walk with you—
[Turning to ALWYN and SHY.]
and these.
ALWYN
A compact, then, we three: that when we go Forth from these gracious trees Into the world, we go as witnesses Before the men who make our country’s laws, And by our witness show In burning words The meaning of these sylvan mysteries: Freedom and sanctuary for the birds! Say, is our compact sworn?
STARK
I swear.
SHY
And I.
[Enter QUERCUS and TACITA.]
X. TACITA. QUERCUS. STARK. ORNIS. SHY. ALWYN
STARK
[To ORNIS.]
Look, sister: friends are coming. Now lead us to their shrine close by.
ORNIS
Oh, first let all make joy of this our union! For now my glad heart, like a partridge drumming, Calls for my mates to join us, all together, In frolicsome communion. Ho, Quercus, Quercus, call them!—Tacita, Summon them with your fairy feet!
QUERCUS
[Bounding forward.]
Holá!
ALWYN
[Taking from his pouch QUERCUS’ pipe.]
Call loud and long! Here’s our old pipe, to carry a new song.
[ALWYN puts the pipe to his lips, while QUERCUS sings to it, calling to the birds. At the end, QUERCUS begs in pantomime for the pipe which ALWYN, smiling, restores to him.]
QUERCUS
Come here, come here, you little comrades coy, From hill and swamp and heather: Make joy, make joy Together!— Tawny beak and scarlet vest, Slant wing and sleek feather, Bulging bill and cocking crest, Hither! Tumble out of nest, Topple out of windy weather Here, holá! With preenings quaint, Purple dyes and crimson paint, Here, holá, in merry state! Up from dew-grass, down from aerie, Tacita—Tacita Summons you to dedicate Here her sanctuary!
[While QUERCUS calls, from all sides Birds of many species and colors—like ORNIS human in form—gather, and peer from the edges of the scene. To these TACITA now beckons, and by her gesture summons to her dance, while QUERCUS plays joyously on his pipe.]
ORNIS
Bird and faun and man and fairy, Gather now to sanctuary!
[TACITA first dances alone, then with QUERCUS; then, inviting and leading them all in pied procession, she marshals all away into her woodland shrine.]
FINIS
Afterword
In the original production of this masque, referred to in the Foreword, the sanctuary stage was devised by MR. JOSEPH LINDON SMITH in two planes—the natural and the supernatural, harmoniously blended.
The natural plane, in the foreground, was a leaf-strewn plot of earth; the supernatural, in the background, was a constructed stage some eighteen inches higher, sloping slightly upward toward the back, covered with smooth canvas, practical for dancing, so painted as to suggest a weathered outcropping of rock, overgrown in places by moss and greensward.
This constructed stage was divided from the foreground earth by the trunk of a felled maple tree, straight in line and inconspicuous in color.
In front of this dividing line, SHY and ALWYN remained always in the natural plane; behind it, ORNIS and TACITA remained always in the supernatural. Their scenes together were enacted near or beside the fallen tree trunk.
In the scene of his conversion, STARK was lured into the higher plane by TACITA; while QUERCUS alone among the characters skipped back and forth from one plane to the other.
As audience, the non-participating spectators sat in dominoes of brown, flanked on either side by the bird-participants in their pied bird costumes. These latter watched the performance until, at the finale, they were summoned by QUERCUS upon the constructed stage.
There, when all had been marshalled, entered the CARDINAL BIRD [enacted by MR. HERBERT ADAMS, the sculptor], accompanied by two small scarlet-tanager acolytes [boys], bearing great candles, to light a crimson cushion held by the Cardinal. On the cushion lay an open scroll.
This scroll, itself a sheet of parchment-like paper from the original press of Benjamin Franklin, had been inscribed by MR. STEPHEN PARRISH with a Sonnet-Epilogue, composed by the author of the masque and signed by all of its participants, with their real names opposite the species of birds they severally impersonated.
Moving slowly forward to music till he stood before PRESIDENT and MRS. WILSON, where they sat near the centre of the first row of the audience, the CARDINAL BIRD, with simple dignity, read from the scroll this
Epilogue
Addressed to MRS. WOODROW WILSON:
Lady, WHEREAS your gentle patronage And presence have to-night so favored us In this our ritual, that you have thus Lent to our earnest cause a double gage: One gracious daughter to make glad our stage And one to make its theme harmonious With song—whose sire now makes illustrious The larger theatre of our living age:
Therefore, ere yet the privilege be spent Which grants our thoughts the spell of human words, We vow by you, here in this tranquil wood, Our loyal love to him—the President, Whose heart has heard the call of the wild birds,
And sign ourselves
Your Servants, with gratitude.
Having thus presented the scroll, the CARDINAL BIRD with his ACOLYTES retired to the stage, where the final dance and procession of the bird-participants then took place.
The Programme of the performance [omitting that part of the Prelude already printed on pages xix and xx] was as follows:
UNDER THE PATRONAGE OF MRS. WOODROW WILSON AND THE FOLLOWING COMMITTEE
MRS. HERBERT ADAMS MRS. C. C. BEAMAN ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES KENYON COX PERCY MACKAYE MAXFIELD PARRISH CHARLES A. PLATT MRS. GEORGE RUBLEE LOUIS EVAN SHIPMAN JOSEPH LINDON SMITH MRS. AUGUSTUS SAINT-GAUDENS
MEMBERS OF THE MERIDEN BIRD CLUB JOIN WITH RESIDENTS OF CORNISH, NEW HAMPSHIRE, AND THEIR FRIENDS, TO PRESENT A MASQUE IN THE INTEREST OF AMERICAN WILD BIRD PROTECTION
PRELUDE
SONG “THE HERMIT THRUSH”
SUNG BY MISS MARGARET WILSON
THE SONG COMPOSED BY FREDERICK S. CONVERSE TO WORDS BY ARVIA MACKAYE, WHO ENACTS THE PART OF THE LITTLE GIRL
MERIDEN, NEW HAMPSHIRE: SEPTEMBER 12, 1913
SANCTUARY
A BIRD MASQUE
BY PERCY MACKAYE
PERFORMED UNDER THE FOLLOWING DIRECTION
STAGE PRODUCTION BY JOSEPH LINDON SMITH DANCING BY JULIET BARRETT RUBLEE ORIGINAL MUSIC BY FREDERICK S. CONVERSE PROPERTIES BY WILLIAM HOWARD HART PROGRAMME DESIGN BY KENYON COX
PERSONS IN THE MASQUE
IN THE ORDER OF THEIR APPEARANCE
QUERCUS FAUN JOSEPH LINDON SMITH ALWYN POET PERCY MACKAYE SHY NATURALIST ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES TACITA DRYAD JULIET BARRETT RUBLEE ORNIS BIRD SPIRIT ELEANOR WILSON STARK PLUME HUNTER WITTER BYNNER ATTENDANT LEONARD COX
Epilogue
THE CARDINAL BIRD HERBERT ADAMS FIRST ACOLYTE ROBIN MACKAYE SECOND ACOLYTE PAUL SAINT-GAUDENS
BIRD PARTICIPANTS IN PANTOMIME
BLUEBIRD MRS. HERBERT ADAMS CARDINAL GROSBEAK MR. HERBERT ADAMS OWL MISS CHARLOTTE ARNOLD BALTIMORE ORIOLE MISS FRANCES ARNOLD OWL MISS GRACE ARNOLD RED-WINGED BLACKBIRD MR. LEROY BARNETT GOLDFINCH MISS BIGELOW DOWNY WOODPECKER MRS. ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES DOWNY WOODPECKER MRS. EDSON BEMIS DOWNY WOODPECKER MR. EDSON BEMIS GOLDFINCH MR. JOHN FARNUM CANN BLUE JAY MISS LOUISE CONVERSE BLUE JAY MISS VIRGINIA CONVERSE KINGBIRD MRS. KENYON COX CROW MR. KENYON COX FLICKER MISS CAROLINE COX SCARLET TANAGER MR. ALLYN COX BLUEBIRD MISS ANNIE H. DUNCAN HOUSE WREN MISS ELIZABETH EVARTS RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET MR. PRESCOTT EVARTS OWL MR. ELWIN FEY SCARLET TANAGER MR. CHARLES FULLER GOLDFINCH MRS. CONGER GOODYEAR RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET MISS LENA HARDY WOOD THRUSH MISS RUTH HALL EVENING GROSBEAK MR. WILLIAM HOWARD HART HAWK MR. GRISWOLD HAYWOOD KINGBIRD MISS KING KINGBIRD MISS CLARA KING BLUEBIRD MRS. HERBERT LAKIN YELLOW WARBLER MISS ELEANOR LAKIN YELLOW WARBLER MISS HETTY LAKIN BLUEBIRD MISS BELLE LAVERACK SNOW BUNTING MRS. PERCY MACKAYE SWALLOW MISS HAZEL MACKAYE HUMMINGBIRD MISS ARVIA MACKAYE SCARLET TANAGER MASTER ROBIN MACKAYE GOLDFINCH MISS ALICE MCCLARY BLUEBIRD MISS ANNE PARRISH CARDINAL BIRD MR. STEPHEN PARRISH RED-WINGED BLACKBIRD MISS MARIE PARKER HERMIT THRUSH MRS. MAXWELL PERKINS GOLDFINCH MR. ROGER PLATT SCARLET TANAGER MR. WILLIAM PLATT RED-WINGED BLACKBIRD MISS EDNA RAPALLO GOLDFINCH MISS HADLEY RICHARDSON BLUE HERON MR. GEORGE RUBLEE LOVE BIRD MRS. LOUIS SAINT-GAUDENS SCARLET TANAGER MR. PAUL SAINT-GAUDENS WOOD THRUSH MISS SCUDDER BLUEBIRD MISS ELLEN SHIPMAN INDIGO BUNTING MASTER EVAN SHIPMAN WOODPECKER MISS FRANCES SMITH WOODPECKER MISS REBECCA SMITH BALTIMORE ORIOLE MISS CORDELIA TOWNSEND
OFFICERS OF THE MERIDEN BIRD CLUB
PRESIDENT, DR. ERNEST L. HUSE
VICE PRESIDENTS
MRS. E. E. WHEELER MR. NEIL CRONIN PROF. FRANK M. HOWE PROF. CHESTER H. SEARS
SECRETARY, MR. JOHN FARNUM CANN
TREASURER, MR. ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES
GENERAL MANAGER, MISS MARY L. CHELLIS
MASQUE COMMITTEE FOR THE MERIDEN BIRD CLUB
MR. ROBERT BARRETT MRS. ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES MR. JOHN FARNUM CANN MISS ANNIE H. DUNCAN MISS MARY A. FREEMAN MR. ALBION E. LANG MR. CHARLES ALDEN TRACY MRS. E. E. WHEELER
COSTUMES
MRS. HERBERT ADAMS MISS ELLEN SHIPMAN MR. JOSEPH LINDON SMITH
PHOTOGRAPHS, DR. ARNOLD GENTHE
BIRD-NOTES, MISS KATHERINE MINAHAN
INVITATIONS, MISS ANNIE H. DUNCAN
AUTOMOBILES, MR. GRISWOLD HAYWOOD
STAGING AND SEATS
MR. WILLIAM HOWARD HART MR. JOHN FARNUM CANN
------------------------------------------------------------------------
BY PERCY MACKAYE
The Canterbury Pilgrims. A Comedy.
Jeanne d’Arc. A Tragedy.
Sappho and Phaon. A Tragedy.
Fenris the Wolf. A Tragedy.
A Garland to Sylvia. A Dramatic Reverie.
The Scarecrow. A Tragedy of the Ludicrous.
Yankee Fantasies. Five One-Act Plays.
Mater. An American Study in Comedy.
Anti-Matrimony. A Satirical Comedy.
To-morrow. A Play in Three Acts.
Sanctuary. A Bird Masque.
A Thousand Years Ago. A Romance of the Orient.
Poems.
Uriel, and Other Poems.
Lincoln: A Centenary Ode.
The Playhouse and the Play. Essays.
The Civic Theatre. Essays.
At all booksellers
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. moved page 2 to end. 2. Silently corrected typographical errors. 3. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. 4. Enclosed italics font in underscores.