THE DRAMA
(SUPPOSED TO BE FROM THE POLISH)
I sat in the crowded theater. The first notes of the
orchestra wandered in the air; then the full harmony burst
forth; then ceased.
The conductor, secretly pleased with the loud applause,
waited a moment, then played again; but as he struck
upon his desk for the third time, the bell sounded, the
just-beginning tones of the wind-instruments and the
violins husht suddenly, and the curtain was rolled to
the ceiling.
Then appeared a wonderful vision, which shall not soon
be forgotten by me.
For know that I am one who loves all things beautiful.
Did you find the figure of a man lying solitary upon the
wind-fashioned hills of sand, watching the large sun rise
from the ocean? That was I.
It was I who, lonely, walked at evening through the
woods of autumn, beholding the sun's level light strike
through the unfallen red and golden foliage,—
Whose heart trembled when he saw the fire that rapidly
consumed the dead leaves lying upon the hillside, and
spread a robe of black that throbbed with crimson jewels
under the wind of the rushing flame.
Know, also, that the august forms wrought in marble
by the ancient sculptors have power upon me, also the imaginative
works of the incomparable painters; and that the
voices of the early poets are modern and familiar to me.
What vision was it, then, that I beheld; what art was
it that made my heart tremble and filled me with joy that
was like pain?
Was it the art of the poet; was it of a truth poetry made
visible in human attitudes and motions?
Was it the art of the painter—which Raphael knew
so well when he created those most gracious shapes that
yet live on the walls of the Vatican?
Or was it the severe and marvelous art of the sculptor,
in which antique Phidias excelled, and which Michael
Angelo indued with new and mighty power?
Or, haply, it was the enchanting myth, made real
before our eyes—of the insensate marble warmed to life
beneath the passionate gaze of the sculptor!
No, no; it was not this miracle, of which the bards
have so often sung; nor was it the art of the poet, nor of
the painter, nor of the musician (tho' often I thought
of music), nor of the sculptor. It was none of these that
moved my heart, and the hearts of all who beheld, and
yet it was all of these,
For it was the ancient and noble art of the drama,—
that art which includes all other art,—and she who was
the mistress of it was the divine Modjeska.
