University of Virginia Library

THE SHADOW OF THE BUILDER

Prelude

High buildings, drenched with light, flank an amphitheatre where,
to festival music, gather the alumni of the University of Virginia. Beyond
a green lawn dimly shows the façade of a low building. When the people
have assembled, the music changes, the lights all about grow dim, and the
façade ahead whitens into beauty. Against it forms with increasing distinctness,
the shadow of the Galt statue of Thomas Jefferson. And then the
shadow fades, leaving only its pedestal, a real, unfinished Corinthian capital
of coarse stone.

(Across the lawn come workmen. They fall to work; and as they pound
their hammers and scrape their trowels, they sing:)
(Gorman, a workman of great stature, coming up from the lawn, goes
to the blunt, half-shaped capital and inspects it in mock appreciation.)
GORMAN

Copied right out of one of Mr. Jefferson's pretty picture-books, every
leaf curled just so.

A WORKMAN
(Laying down his trowel and smiling sarcastically.)

But Signor Raggi is an artist, Gorman. He's no clumsy American
stonecutter with thumbs for fingers.

(Gorman leans against the stone and, lighting his pipe, indulges in un-

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59

couth mimicry punctuated by puffs of smoke. His audience drop
tools and relax into attitudes of enjoyment.)

GORMAN

Ah, Signor Jefferson, how the American stone is brittle. It crumbles
like cheese. In Italy, signor—

(Such acclaim and laughter greet the intonation of this evidently familiar
phrase that Gorman's voice is quite drowned; and only the exaggerated
shrug of his great shoulders carries on the imitation. Raggi,
a stone-carver of Leghorn, comes lightly up the steps from the lawn,
blithely whistling a scrap of opera melody. He is a nervous person,
whose jaunty breeches and scarlet cap atilt, stamp him as alien as his
every syllable, liquid, vivacious.)

RAGGI

Good-morning, signori. You rest? Signor Gorman entertains you with
a bit of pantomime. Yes? (He does not seem to notice that his airy greeting
meets but surly, half-articulate response.)
I must warn you: I have passed
the proctor.

(He smiles at the general scramble to resume work.)

GORMAN
(Alone scorning to stir.)

Mr. Brockenbrough knows we are not loafers—Mr. Jefferson, too.

(Raggi resumes his whistling, softly, and falls to chiselling the capital.)

RAGGI

Pardon. Just a little aside, signor, you delay my chisel.

GORMAN

Delay? Hm. And you trying stone from every quarry in Virginia for
nearly twelve months—at so much a day.

(Raggi's chisel slips. A sliver of stone cracks off and goes rattling to
the floor. He whirls upon Gorman, mallet uplifted, face dark with
anger.)

RAGGI

Me, an artist! You accuse!

(Brockenbrough comes up from the lawn and steps between them. He
is evidently weighted with a thousand cares.)

BROCKENBROUGH

What is this?

RAGGI

An infamy on my art! A cruel infamy!

GORMAN

Mister Raggi has spoiled another capital.—But he is used to that.
Why should he get excited?

(A shadow falls upon them, the natural, morning shadow of Thomas
Jefferson who has come silently up the steps at the end of the terrace.
Jefferson is a tall, old man in an old-fashioned, snowy stock, and suit
of homely gray broadcloth. Before his steady gaze Gorman drops
his eyes swiftly and turns away. The workmen doff caps in ready
respect.)

JEFFERSON

Ah, Gorman. Good-morning, Mr. Brockenbrough. More trouble,
signor?

RAGGI
(The angry attitude relaxing, his tone dropping to a plaint.)

Madonna! The coarse stone, like cheese. I but tap it once, so. Crack!
The work of weeks gone.

(Cornelia, the granddaughter of Jefferson, following him, exclaims with
sympathy at Raggi's ill luck. She is a wistful young person with
great earnest eyes and she carries, as if it were most precious, a great
portfolio in her arms. Going to the rough-hewn stone, she lays the
portfolio down and touches with her finger tips the scar.)

CORNELIA

Is it quite spoiled?

BROCKENBROUGH

Chop off the curl of the leaf, Raggi. It will never be noticed—thirty
feet aloft.

RAGGI
(Appealing to Jefferson in a shocked tone.)

It will never be noticed. Yes? I shall—chop it?

(Jefferson's only reply is a slow, sympathetic smile and an almost imperceptible
shake of the head. He turns with a smile to the men at
work and at the same time speaks to Brockenbrough.)

JEFFERSON

No holiday, Mr. Brockenbrough, even to welcome Lafayette!

BROCKENBROUGH

Every hour counts so—with all these buildings under way.

JEFFERSON

But it is here our neighbors of Charlottesville are coming to honor Lafayette.

(Brokenbrough dismisses the men with a gesture. Pouring down on
the lawn they clap each other on the back like hulking schoolboys
turned out for the day. Raggi lingers uncertainly. Jefferson extends
a hand to Cornelia.)

My dear, let us give Mr. Brockenbrough the specifications and drawings
we promised him.

CORNELIA
(Opening the big portfolio with immense precision and giving several
drawings to Brockenbrough.)

All except the Temple of Fortuna Virilis. That I have to shade.

JEFFERSON
(Smiling indulgently.)

We are as jealous of presenting our conception in true artistic form as a
Raphael, Mr. Brockenbrough.

(Brockenbrough smiles, too, and bows his thanks to the serious young
artist, but his manner is quite abstracted from the pleasantries of the
moment.)

BROCKENBROUGH
(Anxiously.)

Doesn't the work drag, sir?

JEFFERSON

Why, Mr. Dinsmore is putting up the modillions in his pavilion.

BROCKENBROUGH

At last. But Mr. Perry can't go on with the foundations of his until
he has blasted that rock out of the way. Mr. Ware has not begun to burn
his bricks. And now this! (He touches the capital with the sheaf of drawings.)

JEFFERSON

Remember, Mr. Brockenbrough, we are building not what shall perish
with ourselves but what shall remain to be respected and preserved through
other ages. If we do not finish this year or next or even in our life—

BROCKENBROUGH

But the months pile up so and I want to see the University open.

JEFFERSON

And I—if I might live to see it on its legs, (His voice trails wistfully
into mild humor,)
my bantling of forty years' nursing and growth, ah, then,
my friend, I could sing with serenity my "nunc dimittis."

(Brockenbrough seems much moved. He clears his throat twice and then
abruptly changes the subject.)

BROCKENBROUGH

Shall I have Raggi try to redeem this—

JEFFERSON
(Firmly.)

No.

BROCKENBROUGH

—or put him to helping Gorman hack out those door-sills?

JEFFERSON
(Smiling at Raggi's movement of horror.)

Not on Lafayette's day. Wait. Some of the Visitors of the University
will be here. Let us have their advice.

(Brockenbrough goes off. Raggi comes forward eagerly.)

RAGGI

In Italy, signor, we use such coarse stone only for paving or for—how
do you say?—what the big Gorman hacks out, ah, door-sills. The feet do
not care. But the eyes, signor, the eyes are different. They look up to
the capital. It is the crown of the house. It must be fair. It must be
delicate, white—

(He breaks off with a gesture of despair at the futility of English words.)

CORNELIA

Like clouds.

RAGGI
(Gratefully.)

She understands. The capitals for your beautiful academy, signor,
should be of marble.

JEFFERSON

Marble! (He begins a gesture of negation, but the suggestion plainly
fascinates him. Back of them dawns an other-worldly light. Jefferson looks
straight ahead of him, but his eyes are illumined. Cornelia's gaze, too, seems
to change and soften. Raggi, alone unconscious of the vision, leans absently
against the rejected stone. Shadows move through the radiance behind them,

The Pageant: Jefferson and his Granddaughter

shadows of such figures as might wreathe a Greek vase. There is the sound of
foot-falls as light as falling leaves, a strain of far-heard pipes and timbrels.
Then the shadows vanish, the light fades, and the timbrels are still.)
No, Signor
Raggi, no. Go before you tempt me!

(He paces away along the terrace. Raggi goes off, but Cornelia follows
Jefferson.)

CORNELIA

Marble capitals would be beautiful. (Shadows move again, and then the
lovely shapes that made them, dancers, beautiful, undulating. When they are
gone, Cornelia sighs gently and insists, half in statement, half in puzzled query,
looking up into Jefferson's face.)
And marble would be best. (Jefferson only
smiles at her and leads her back toward the rejected stone where he seats her on
the little campstool which up to now has masqueraded in whimsical wizardry
as Jefferson's cane. She as by habit sits down to begin drawing. Her movements
are absent, and even as her hands busy themselves with the paper her eyes
follow Jefferson. He again walks away along the terrace. When he has reached
the far end, she repeats her puzzled words.)
Marble would be best.

JEFFERSON
(Halting to turn and look back at her as she sits, eyes grave, pencil
poised.)

But, my dear, how the very word would reverberate in legislative halls.
Consider Mr. Cabell.

CORNELIA

Mr. Cabell would not mind. Is it not his "holy cause"? And Mr.
Madison and President Monroe always—

JEFFERSON

Humor me. But—

CORNELIA
(Shutting the portfolio and going to him.)

It is your dream. You cannot make it true with stone too coarse to be
shaped. Think of the Pantheon. When it rises there at the end of your
lifting line of colonnades, must it wear (Her voice breaks)
for its crown
chipped and broken stones?

JEFFERSON

Ah, Cornelia, I am not Pericles with tribute from a chain of subject
states to buy me beauty.

CORNELIA

Just the capitals. Everything else of brick and wood and rough stones.
But the capitals of marble.

(They are standing at the farthest point of the terrace. Jefferson takes
a little notebook from his pocket and computes rapidly, speaking the
while more to himself than to her.)

JEFFERSON

Perhaps thirty all told. A small thing to a great state, something more
than a score of marble capitals. But it would mean—more waiting. I
could hardly hope to live to see it finished, our Athenæum—I have longed
to hear it hum with an ordered throng of youths like those in the antique
poet who sat so seemly as they read their Homer and so lightly ran their
"laps beneath the olive trees."

(Light, far footfalls, pipes and timbrels, moving shadows, and a row
of swaying dancers, hands linked. Two youths come out on the terrace.
One, the younger, runs down upon the grass to dance. The other
drops to the steps where he half reclines as he looks on. Socrates, a
bearded man with a long staff, strolls in and stands meditatively regarding
the dance. Both youths nod to him affectionately; and the
dancer moves in ever-decreasing arcs nearer and nearer to him.)

SOCRATES

The dance of Lysis has a meaning, I suppose, Phædrus, a meaning and
a name?

PHÆDRUS

The Moth-dance.

SOCRATES

And the flame?

PHÆDRUS

You, to be sure. Are you not a purveyor of wisdom?

SOCRATES
(Sitting down and bestowing his draperies comfortably as for a long
talk.)

So it is wisdom the Athenian youth crave.

PHÆDRUS

Indeed. And their fathers for them. Men spend vast sums to get their
sons education.

SOCRATES

What! Exchange solid drachmas for such a vapor! Dear, dear. And
the men who receive all this money, the teachers—I suppose they but sit
and hark to the boys con their Hesiod and Homer.

(Lysis laughs aloud as he drops breathlessly to the steps at Socrates'
feet.)

LYSIS

Oh, Socrates.

PHÆDRUS

Hardly. They must be men of learning and high purpose. Otherwise
the youth would be corrupted.

SOCRATES

True. (He tells off one finger of his uplifted hand.)
Learning and
high purpose granted. Then the father, having found such philosophers
and driven his bargain may go his way in peace. Of course the sages will
seek out the young son, perhaps in the market place, and there, vying
with cackling fowls and hucksters crying their fish and myrtles, they will
press at the youth's elbow and pour wisdom in his ear. —No? Why not?
It is paid for. A bargain is a bargain.

PHÆDRUS
(Moving his shoulders fastidiously.)

But to learn in the noise and dust of the market-place!

SOCRATES

Then where? (Several youths come up. They stand listening while
their attendant crouches apart, as by custom.)
Phædrus here is about to
tell us where it is meet that youth shall be educated.

PHÆDRUS
(In some embarrassment.)

I hardly know. But the place must be beautiful, an academy of cool
colonnades and—

SOCRATES
(Prompting.)

Yes?

PHÆDRUS

And a lawn where (softly quoting)
"the plane-tree whispers to the
linden."

SOCRATES
(Telling off two more fingers.)

A fair colonnade, whispering trees, learned teachers,—then surely the
fathers may be easy now. All the sons will be wise.

(The youths all laugh, and others press nearer. The terrace is filling
with men of various ages, flowingly suggestive, in their easy grouping,
of Raphael's School of Athens. Phædrus springs to his feet in his
eagerness.)

PHÆDRUS

But, Socrates, a great deal depends upon the sons themselves.

SOCRATES

Why, they are only the vessels into which the oil is to be poured.

(Low laughter from the listeners.)

PHÆDRUS

Even so, they must be good vessels, not leaky or—hideous.

(Murmurs of approbation.)

SOCRATES

Beautiful vessels, too! O, Phædrus, how may we hope to make the
students beautiful?

PHÆDRUS

By trainers, of course, by the wrestling-school, by racing, by jumping—

(His words are drowned in the general applause. Socrates, with a
good-natured gesture, admits himself worsted and turns away toward
an elderly man, who promptly rolls up the papyrus he is reading
to make ready for delectable talk. The boys toss off their mantles and
run down upon the lawn. A trainer with his official staff and wearing
a vivid striped mantle selects from the crowding youths a half-dozen
to compete in a race. Slaves with oil-flasks make the contestants
ready. They withdraw to the beginning of the race-course. There is a
hum of eager talk and speculation. A host of youths pour in to see the
sport. They crowd the lawn, but are pressed back from the line of the
race-course by trainers. The contestants come running into view.
Lysis is winner, and is at once caught up and borne back with bravos
to the steps of the terrace to be crowned with laurel by a red-robed judge
waiting there. The enthusiastic crowd presses in upon the little knot
of athletes singing jubilantly:)
(The terrace empties. The youths still singing mount to the slopes
above the amphitheatre. The light on the amphitheatre grows dim,
but the rosy glow holds.)

Interlude

Music in which blend strains familiar to University victory and prowess
in athletics.

(When the music is ending, the light fades. As the amphitheatre brightens
again, Jefferson and Cornelia are seen still standing half-hidden
by shrubbery. A man who is presently to style himself a plain American
citizen, a voter, speaks officiously at Jefferson's very elbow.)
VOTER

Mr. Jefferson.

JEFFERSON
(Startled, recovers himself with an effort.)

Sir, have I had the honor—?

VOTER

You do not know me. I am a plain American citizen, voted for you for
President. I want a word with you.

(Jefferson inclines his head at the implied obligation and gently disengages
Cornelia's hand lying upon his arm.)

JEFFERSON

You will excuse us, my dear?

(Cornelia drops a shy curtsey and goes toward a group of ladies who
have come up from the lawn accompanied by servants with baskets.
One of them greets her.)

WOMAN

Cakes for the banquet—and we have yet to slice them!

CORNELIA

Let me help.

(They go inside.)

VOTER

I admire your political principles, Mr. Jefferson. I respect your age, but
I must tell you that people are very dissatisfied with your building here—
fancy ornaments, foreign labor, extravagance of all kinds—we want more
closets and fewer columns—

(Jefferson paces away from him a few steps and then pauses, his eyes
turned toward the shadowy confines of the lawn.)

JEFFERSON

There are divers minds, sir, and divers modes of thought. That we
should have builded to meet the approbation of every individual was in itself
impossible. We had no supplementary guide but our own judgment.
(His mild voice pauses. Then turning suddenly toward the voter, he puts a period
to the conversation.)
We have builded by our taste, sir, and by our
conscience.

(He bows low with old-fashioned courtesy and goes within. The voter
stands a moment staring after him. Cabell comes up the steps and
passes. He is half across the terrace when a voice halts him. Madison
and Monroe cross the lawn together.)

MADISON

Mr. Cabell!

(The voter recovers himself with a start and puts out his hand toward
Cabell as Cabell is turning back to the steps.)

VOTER

You do not know me. I am a plain American citizen, voted for you
for the legislature—

CABELL
(Bowing rather distantly and attempting to pass.)

Accept my thanks, sir.

VOTER

I want to speak to you about Mr. Jefferson's wastefulness in the building
going on here. There is a good deal of gossip—

CABELL

Gossip, sir! Mr. Jefferson is as indifferent to gossip as Monticello to
summer mists. (Chin up, he passes on to greet Madison and Monroe. They
meet beside the rejected stone and the little camp-stool forgotten there. Cabell's
face relaxes at sight of the stool. He takes it up and folds it carefully.)
The Old
Sachem is here ahead of us.

(The voter goes down to the lawn and off.)

MADISON

Perhaps, as the workmen say, he watches through his telescope the
driving of every nail; and if one is driven falsely, mounts Old Eagle and
comes charging down to right it.

MONROE

Every nail! Ah, sirs, even we, the Visitors, scarcely know the half of
Mr. Jefferson's dreams for the University.

CABELL

Perhaps we should grow faint if we often looked aloft from this material
base, these buildings dearly fought for and not yet completely won,—
aloft to the imagined towers of science he bids us rear.

MADISON
(Musing.)

We talked together, he and I, at Monticello last night—the punch-bowl
half buried in a drift of pages, the gathered dreams of half a century.—

CABELL
(Interrupting in an undertone.)

And such ordered dreams!

MADISON

Exactly. The very books for the library listed as minutely as those
specifications for bricks he daily sets his cramped wrist to draw up. Even
a masterpiece of sound defense for what he calls "our novelties," schools
of Anglo-Saxon, agriculture, government! A packet of letters already
written to precede Mr. Gilmer to Europe on his quest for "characters of
the first order"—

MONROE

We have progressed since the day when Mr. Jefferson laid out the first
building with peg and rule and twine here in Perry's old stubble field.

CABELL

If I could but have made the legislature see the great scale of his vision!

MONROE

You have accomplished much. You will do more.

CABELL
(Sadly.)

I cannot go back another term. My health is quite spent.

MADISON

Poor Old Sachem! Does he know?

CABELL

No. I must tell him to-day.

(A boy dashes across the lawn shouting.)

BOY

He's come! Lafayette has come!

(The sound of drums and processional music. Gaily dressed people
gather on the lawn. From the building come Cornelia and the ladies.
They curtsey to the gentlemen and pass down to the lawn. Down the
center aisle of the amphitheatre and through the lane of people, who
wave handkerchiefs and cheer, passes the procession: the chief marshal
and his aids; the president of the day; magistrates and other local
dignitaries; Lafayette and his staff. A flagbearer carries the flags
of America and France. At the steps, the dignitaries pause and divide
to let Lafayette pass through. Jefferson meets him there. They
embrace, and the cheering mounts to a frenzy. "Lafayette! Lafayette!")


JEFFERSON

God bless you, General!

LAFAYETTE

Ah, Jefferson! (He turns toward the lawn and speaks to the people.)

Even in the old world, I think, I have not seen a work that so clearly speaks
the spirit of the master as this, your Athenæum, speaks of him who has
fathered it. Its white colonnades are yet empty of young life, but a shadow
falls along them daily. Athwart the centuries, so that your sons and their
sons in turn shall walk within it, still will stretch the shadow of the friend
of freedom, of truth, Thomas Jefferson.

(Cheers, "Jefferson! Jefferson!" One voice cries, "The Declaration!"
Jefferson bows his head.)

JEFFERSON

My friends and neighbors, I am old, long in the disuse of making public
speeches, and without voice to utter them—It is my single wish to hear
you acclaim with undivided voice, as but now you did acclaim our great
guest and me, this, our University.

(A straggling voice calls, "The University!" but the crowd stirs with
confusion. The bands begin to play again, and the dignitaries go up
the steps of the terrace. There they form a lane again, and the chief
marshal by gesture invites Lafayette in to the banquet. Lafayette
turns to Jefferson, who stands looking out over the lawn, and offers
him his arm. Jefferson squares his shoulders, smiles affectionately,
and lays his hand within the elbow of the old marquis. With stately
steps they walk together into the banquet hall. Again the crowd cheers.
When the banqueters have gone the throng on the lawn gradually disperses,
some straying in groups upon the terrace to look curiously about.
A woman with her young son at her side pauses in admiration before
the unfinished capital. The voter approaches them. Cornelia, half-hidden
from them by a clump of shrubs on the lawn, stands listening.)

VOTER

I suppose you'd call that beautiful.

WOMAN

Why, no—it is still so rough—but it suggests beauty.

VOTER

H'm. More useless finery, fancy folderols, expensive toys for a man in
his dotage.

A MAN
(Coming up to them.)

Is it true that Mr. Jefferson will have no professors here but foreigners
—and Unitarians?

(The hum of voices swells and the stragglers foregather.)

VOTER

I don't doubt it. No one really knows what religion he believes in himself.

MAN

And he did get a lot of foreign notions when he lived abroad.

WOMAN

Ah, you are all swift to detract.

HER SON
(Tensely.)

But I heard you cheering, "Jefferson! Jefferson!"

WOMAN

Hush, my son.

(From the banquet hall comes an orator's voice rounding a period:
"—the friend of freedom," and then the sound of applause.)

VOTER

But, my boy, that is the thing to do, to cheer when public men stand
before us. I voted for Thomas Jefferson for President, but when it comes to
emptying out my pockets, why, that is different.

BYSTANDERS

Very different—. Indeed—. —especially for pagan professors and
un-American buildings.

VOTER

Of course it was not our business if he chose to throw away a lifetime
and a fortune on building his own house. Monticello—

(Raggi pushes through the ring of listeners and interrupts.)

RAGGI

Monticello? Ah, the fair, the serene house. Long after the flimsy shelters
in your valley lie rotted it will stand in beauty—so art endures, signori
and signore—on the breast of its little mountain.

(A breath of silence, during which Raggi picks up his chisel, left forgotten
on the stone.)

MAN

And who is he?

VOTER
(Shrugging his shoulders and turning to go down the steps.)

An importation of Mr. Jefferson's—from Italy.

(The circle breaks up and the people drift away. Raggi, leaving, is
stopped by Cornelia coming up from the lawn, portfolio in her arms.)

CORNELIA

If you please. I want to show you the drawing of the library, the great
building to stand at the head of the lawn. (She opens the portfolio on the
capital, and Raggi gives a low exclamation of pure delight.)
Do you recognize
it?

RAGGI

Recognize it? Ah!

CORNELIA

It will be smaller—

RAGGI

Of a certainty. But the proportions! The perfect round. Have you
seen it, the temple of all the gods? You have been to Italy, to Rome itself?
You know the Pantheon?

CORNELIA
(Wistfully, shaking her head.)

Only pictures. (She watches him study the drawing.)
Would rough
capitals spoil it?

RAGGI

Rough capitals? A thing impossible. They must be of marble.

(With a gesture of finality he turns abruptly away. She follows.)

CORNELIA

But of course there are different sorts of marble, some smoother than
others, whiter, some—

RAGGI

Ah, if we were but in Italy! There is the perfect marble, flawless like
untracked snow.

CORNELIA

It is—?

RAGGI

Carrara.

CORNELIA

Oh. Carrara.

(Satisfied, she turns to tie the portfolio again, and, when Raggi has gone,
sits down on the steps, her chin on her palms. Jefferson comes from
the banquet hall.)

JEFFERSON

Cornelia, you are waiting for me? But you will grow tired. Men love
talk like old wine.

CORNELIA

Shall you have a chance to speak to the Visitors of the University?

JEFFERSON

When the meat is served. We are to come here. But you must not
wait, my child. Are you delaying your carriage until the file winds up to
Monticello so that I may be your cavalier? I am but a grizzled outrider, and
Eagle an ancient mount—

CORNELIA

Listen. I have found what kind of marble we want for the capitals, the
smoothest, the whitest, the best—Carrara.

JEFFERSON
(Suddenly serious, taking her chin in his hand to study her eyes.)

My dear, we can but try. I will ask our Visitors.

(Jefferson and Cornelia separate, he going with bowed head back to
the banquet hall and she stealing softly down to the lawn.)
(Light dawns upon the terrace. Phædrus, in short, dun-colored cape
and little hard, round hat slung about his neck, comes out between
Socrates and Lysis. He wears a new and strange appearance which
cannot be entirely attributable to his clothes, although they are of
course both new and strange. It is rather a matter of lifted chin and a
far-off gaze. Lysis presses very close to him, looking up into his face
and now and then feeling the stuff of his cape. Socrates smiles whimsically
at the two of them.)

SOCRATES

Lysis, I think you are envying Phædrus. But the life of training he has
begun is rigorous. Surely you do not crave that ugly uniform. (Lysis
laughs and shakes his head.)
Or the close-cropped head? No? Perhaps
it is the mad revels of the young men, their societies of mystic names?
Nor these? Then perhaps the shield and spear Phædrus will have from the
state—and the dangers he will soon go out to encounter on the frontier?

LYSIS

Oh, no, Socrates.

SOCRATES

Then it is the sacred oath he swore just now in the sanctuary. (Lysis
not denying this, but instead looking eagerly toward him, Socrates drops his
humorous tone and speaks very gently.)
Ah, Lysis, do you suppose that you
must wait for a day and year to take an oath as sacred? Or that temples
alone can consecrate high purpose? This rough stone be your altar. Phædrus,
here, and I, your friends, will speak a prayer with you, and like good
comrades claim a share in the blessings it brings.

PHÆDRUS

But, Socrates, men say you do not believe in the gods.

SOCRATES

And you, who are my friend, who talk with me daily, how do you answer
them in your heart? Do you say, Socrates believes the sun a stone, he
has no faith in what is divine?

PHÆDRUS

No. But the men who are so clamorous to pass the sentence of death
upon you are not your friends. They declare you never sacrifice to the gods
of the state—

SOCRATES

Hush. It is sacrilege to give God to our little Attic state. Pray with
Lysis. Ask with him the dearest wish of his heart.

PHÆDRUS

Ah, I know what that will be—honor.

SOCRATES

Is that so, Lysis? Do you yearn above all things for truth? (Lysis
nods. The two youths stand by the rough stone and pray after Socrates.)
O,
Pallas, glorious goddess, keeper of wisdom,—

PHÆDRUS AND LYSIS

O, Pallas, glorious goddess, keeper of wisdom,—

SOCRATES

—give me beauty in my inward soul. May I be brave.

PHÆDRUS AND LYSIS

—give me beauty in my inward soul. May I be brave.

SOCRATES

And then, Athena, send me truth.

PHÆDRUS AND LYSIS

And then, Athena, send me truth.

(Socrates moves away, leaving Phædrus and Lysis. Phædrus, taking a
scroll from his tunic, sits down to read in it. After a moment Lysis
slips to a lower step and drops down quietly. He hugs his knees boy-fashion
and bends over to sniff delicately at the beautiful papyrus.)

LYSIS

Oil of sandalwood. Mmmm.

PHÆDRUS
(Thinking aloud.)

It would be splendid to be a poet, to speak truth, but half-knowing
how—yet easily, as the smilax climbs.

LYSIS

I have thought of that.

PHÆDRUS

After this (touching his uniform)
, I may try it,—try putting into starry
words the beauty that lumps in my throat.

LYSIS
(Reproachfully.)

But you were going to be a master artisan and fashion wings for us.
You said it would be simple to fly.

PHÆDRUS

Simple? Even the seagulls know as much, poising surely between blue
and blue in the wake of tall triremes.

LYSIS
(Still reproachfully.)

And only this morning you talked of founding a great world state so
that there might be an end of wars and all the oppressed should be free.

PHÆDRUS

Who can tell? (Moonlight silvers the façade beyond the terrace and
streaks the floor with light and shadow. A fair Athenian girl in shimmering
fabrics with garlands of unreal silver flowers stands a moment in a path of light.
Phædrus, spying her, springs to his feet, hand outstretched. Startled, she
vanishes before Lysis, leaping up and looking back, has seen her.)
It was
Helen!

LYSIS

How could you know?

PHÆDRUS

By her beauty. Was it not the glory of Greece? I have seen her in a
thousand dreams flash white-armed along these moon-barred colonnades.

(Again the girl appears. This time it is Lysis who sees her. He cries
aloud and runs toward her. She eludes him. He pursues and overtakes
her. But she breaks away and leaves him with empty arms

---

77

staring at the moon-lines on the floor. Soft music, and then the voice
of song:)
(The girl comes slowly out into the light again. Lysis meets her and
they dance of the love that comes to youth in dreams, mystic, evanescent.
At last she slips away. He follows. Other maidens come and dance
on the lawn; and the dance drifts into joyous revelry. They go off
laughing, Phædrus in their midst. The moonlight endures.)

INTERLUDE

Music, in which blend strains associated with University revels and
dancing.

(The amphitheatre grows bright again. The door of the banquet hall
opens, loosing a hum of general talk and laughter and the clink of
silver upon china. Jefferson comes out resting his hand affectionately
upon Cabell's shoulder.)
JEFFERSON

Whether to ask remission of our debt or funds for the library? The
latter, oh, surely, my friend, the latter. Were we to stop building now and
open our doors, we should fully satisfy the common sort of mind. And so
we should then be forced to proceed forever upon that low level.

CABELL

I have said we must never again ask money for building—but it is my
chief happiness to please you, in the little time I have left.

JEFFERSON
(Starting away from him.)

The little time?

CABELL

I am quite unable to stand for reëlection.

JEFFERSON

Desert now your holy labors! Think—one life you have. Can you
spend it better? The host of young in the years ahead depend for the freedom
of their souls upon our sacrifice of time, health, even life—(His voice
breaks, but he tries to go on.)
If you continue not firm-breasted, how shall
I without vigor of body or mind—

CABELL
(Stopping him.)

It is not in my nature to resist such an appeal.

JEFFERSON
(Again dropping his hand on Cabell's shoulder.)

My friend, my friend! —You will announce your candidacy?

CABELL

In the next issue of the Enquirer.

VOTER
(Coming up to them from the lawn.)

The talk I mentioned to you, Mr. Jefferson, has reached a head to-day.
The people gathered here are very dissatisfied. When they come together
again to see Lafayette come out, you should speak to them, explain this
rumor—

CABELL
(Frigidly.)

A rumor, sir?

VOTER

That these fancy capitals are an utter failure.

CABELL

More gossip, sir.

JEFFERSON

Gently, my friend. We are physicians unenviably prescribing a
draught nauseous to the public. (Turning to the voter.)
You are correct in
supposing us to have made mistakes, but we prefer to make no speeches. I

have found in a long life that the approbation of the public denied in the
beginning will surely follow right action in the end. Time dissipates these
mists of prejudice. We are building for those who are to come after us.
They will know whether we have builded well or ill. It is from posterity
that we expect remuneration (extending his hand toward the far boundaries of
the lawn)
, and I fear not the appeal. (The voter goes off as he came.)
It is
true, Mr. Cabell. Our Italian artist to-day spoiled this stone. (He turns
in greeting to Madison and Monroe as they come out of the banquet hall.)
Your
feasting with Lafayette has been interrupted, sirs, by the claims of your
office as Visitors of the University. Your rector needs advice. Signor Raggi
has decided, after all, that Corinthian capitals can never be faithfully carved
from such coarse stone. Shall we in the absence of our colleagues, the other
Visitors, arrest his work?

MONROE

By all means.

MADISON

Pay his passage back to Leghorn if need be. He is hardly more popular
than useful.

JEFFERSON

And the capitals? (The other men are silent, waiting for him to go on.)

We shall still have to get capitals. (He takes the notebook from his pocket and,
consulting it, speaks in deliberate, matter-of-fact tones.)
I have made computations.
Capitals are relatively cheap in Italy. They understand there
doing these things more expeditiously than we. We can have at a reasonable
figure—less than we have already spent in experiment—capitals of
flawless marble.

MADISON

Marble!

CABELL

And imported! Consider the legislature, Mr. Jefferson.

MONROE

Think how delays goad the public impatience.

JEFFERSON
(As if he has not heard.)

These colonnades will shelter the visions of unnumbered hosts, young
Lockes, Newtons, even Lafayettes brave for right. Here the fledgling poet
shall sense the law of austere beauty which Homer knew, and boy Ciceros
learn to strip their raw fancies from the chaste, compelling truth—

(He breaks off. There is a little silence, and then Madison taking a
step forward speaks to Cabell and Monroe.)

MADISON

Thomas Jefferson is the father of the University of Virginia. It is the
very shadow of his great self. He alone can know how its spirit must be
bodied forth. Let us not deny him one stone.

MONROE

Jefferson, you must decide.

(He seizes Jefferson's hand and wrings it warmly. The others follow
his example and go at once back toward the banquet hall.)

JEFFERSON

But your advice—I need your advice—your help—

CABELL

You are an infinitely better judge than we.

(They go in. Jefferson stands alone staring down at the rejected stone,
his notebook still in his hand. Brockenbrough comes up from the
lawn.)

BROCKENBROUGH

You saw the Visitors?

JEFFERSON

Yes.

BROCKENBROUGH

About Raggi, I mean.

JEFFERSON

About Raggi? Yes.

BROCKENBROUGH

What did they decide, sir? Is he to go on spoiling good material?

JEFFERSON

No. Oh, no. We must have no more good material spoiled, Mr.
Brockenbrough. (His abstraction is so deep that he seems not to notice Brockenbrough's
restless shifting of position.)
We must stop Raggi from spoiling
good material. They were clear about that.

BROCKENBROUGH

And the capitals? How shall we finish the columns?

JEFFERSON

They told me to decide—but I am very tired—It would take a long
time to bring capitals from Italy, Mr. Brockenbrough.

BROCKENBROUGH

A good many months, I should suppose, and a clumsy job at best.
Even after they are dumped off at New York, they would have to be got to
Richmond, and, after that, long, tedious hauls by batteaux and wagons.
It would delay us indefinitely.

JEFFERSON

Months and months.

BROCKENBROUGH
(With sudden sympathy.)

Why worry now, sir? You've had a long day. You can discharge
Raggi to-morrow—and then think about the capitals.

JEFFERSON

To-morrow. I will decide to-morrow.

(Brockenbrough goes off hat in hand. From the banquet hall comes
Lafayette.)

LAFAYETTE

Jefferson. My friend.

JEFFERSON

Lafayette, Lafayette, the years press sensibly on our shoulders. How
long since your shield covered this neighborhood from the ravages of Cornwallis!
How long since you brought your band of patriots to my house in
Paris to wish a constitution! History has turned many chapters since then,
of Robespierre, Barras, Bonaparte and the Bourbons.

LAFAYETTE

Many chapters indeed, Jefferson.

JEFFERSON
(Walking away, head bowed.)

Replete with intrigue, dark with death.

LAFAYETTE
(Following.)

But on every page the bright recurrent phrase.

JEFFERSON

The bright phrase?

LAFAYETTE

You ask! You who in young manhood wrote, all men are free; and now
in the ripeness of age make them this material pledge. (His gesture includes
the buildings and lawn.)

JEFFERSON

Freedom.

LAFAYETTE

A fair flag for the young crusaders to be nurtured here.

(The chief marshal comes out of the banquet hall and looks about him.
Lafayette, at the far end of the terrace, presses Jefferson's two hands
in silence and joins the marshal. They go back into the banquet hall.)

JEFFERSON

Young Lafayettes brave for truth.

(A shadowy figure slips in and kneels beside the rejected stone. Then
comes Socrates, hands behind him, face lifted, intent upon absorbing
reverie. Back of him is Phædrus with shield and spear. They are
almost upon the kneeling youth when Phædrus, seeing him, lays his
hand upon Socrates' arm.)

SOCRATES

What, Lysis! Still at the altar of truth? (As Lysis lifts grief-stricken
eyes, his tone of raillery softens into tender reproach.)
Ah, my son, you grieve.

PHÆDRUS
(In a low tone.)

Because I am ordered to the frontier and you are to be tried, Lysis is
sure I shall be killed and you condemned.

SOCRATES

Lysis, I was condemned to die from the hour of my birth. My judges
can but fix the time of my setting forth. Look, is tranquil sleep a boon or a
curse?

LYSIS
(Rising and never taking his eyes from Socrates' face.)

A boon, of course.

SOCRATES

Or if, as some say, we live on after death, would not Phædrus joyfully
go to meet the heroes of old—Palamedes and Ajax, the son of Telamon?
Think, Lysis, what could he not learn of Orpheus or of Homer.

LYSIS
(Lifting his arms, as though they were winged and he would take flight.)

Truth itself.

PHÆDRUS

And how they would tell it!

Greek Dancing at the Pageant

SOCRATES

You see. The hour is neither here nor there. Would not you yourself,
Lysis, who are yet young, this moment gladly die, if you so might lighten,
a little, men's load of tyranny and error?

LYSIS

Gladly—Oh!

(Far off a trumpet sounds and then the tread of marching feet. A
company of youths with shields and spears passes along and Phædrus
silently joins them. Lysis, lifting his arms high above his head, leaps
down the steps to dance upon the grass. He dances, not the freedom of
nature but the blood-bought liberty of peoples, to music which is martial
and splendid. Socrates watches him and then goes away, stopping
once or twice to look back at him. Dancers in deep blue come in. The
recurrent poses of their dance suggest a frieze or the pediment of some
Greek temple. When their dance is ended Lysis rushes up the steps
and pauses there, arms uplifted as though he would actually take flight.
Again there are trumpets. He drops his arms and marches away at
the head of the martial company.)
(The doors of the banquet hall are thrown open, and there floats forth a
confusion of talk and the scraping of chairs. The flag-bearer comes
out, but, finding himself a little premature, halts suddenly and stands
looking back almost hidden by the mingled folds of the two flags. The
nearly level light throws a long diagonal shadow across the terrace,
enveloping Jefferson. Lafayette comes out. He pauses once at the
very spot where Lysis stood a moment earlier, and the sunlight falls
startlingly upon him and the mingled flags behind him. The banqueters
coming out in confusion fill the terrace, and crowds on the
lawn press near the steps. A fragment of cheering struggles up, but
clamor drowns it. Lafayette goes down the steps with his staff, folowed
by the local dignitaries; and the people push in behind them.
Jefferson is left alone. From the shadow on the lawn pass workmen
homeward bound singing softly:)
(Jefferson hurries after them along the terrace, calling.)

JEFFERSON

Gorman, oh, Gorman!

GORMAN

Yes, Mr. Jefferson?

JEFFERSON

Has Signor Raggi gone?

GORMAN

No, Mr. Jefferson.

(Jefferson has stopped in the light; and its glow falls full upon his face
turned toward Gorman down on the lawn.)

JEFFERSON

Then send him to me.

(Gorman goes back. There is a light, deepening to brilliance, and the
sound of flutes in processional drawing nearer and nearer. A girl
comes out and dances, and after her Athenian maidens bearing green
palm fronds. They dance on the grass and then sweep the rejected
stone and the steps with their branches. The flutes are at hand, and
the players appear. After them come other groups in sacred processional:
high-born maidens carrying aloft painted jars of oil and golden
vases of wine; old men with olive-boughs; athletes wearing coronals
of victory; and attendants of the temple, some with long garlands of
flowers for the altar and some with trays and baskets of sacrificial
loaves and fruit. From the slopes above the amphitheatre come the
host of Athenian youths in ordered march filling the lawn in great
semicircles. They carry unlighted torches. At last the priestess of
Athena walks slowly forth to stand beside the stone. An attendant
brings her the lustral bowl. She bathes her hands. Attendants offer
fagots. She kindles a fire and prays.)

PRIESTESS

Cleanse us of error, great daughter of Jove.

(As the fire leaps into flame, Lysis draws near in the last measures of
the Moth-dance. The priestess gives a torch into his hand. He runs
down and kindles the torch in the hands of a youth near the steps.
The light travels from hand to hand until the whole lawn is ablaze with
torches. The youths sing:)
(Still singing, carrying torches aloft, led by Lysis, they march up the
steps and through the central doorway of the building. Group by
group, the worshipers follow. The priestess, when they have all gone,
pours a perfumed libation on the fire, quenching the flame, and herself
follows. The last sound of the recessional is the echo of flutes.)
(A group of workmen passes. Jefferson hurries toward them into the
light, but then he pauses, waiting. Another group passes. Then
come Gorman and Raggi.)

RAGGI
(Cap in hand, below the steps.)

You wanted me, signor?

(Gorman goes on by.)

JEFFERSON

Yes, Raggi. I have decided.

CORNELIA
(Coming out of the shrubs at the other side of the steps.)

Are you never coming?

JEFFERSON

Ah, my child, is Wild Air impatient?

CORNELIA

Wild Air! Why, dear, Wild Air belonged to White House days. I can
hardly remember him. Don't you know—you ride Eagle now.

JEFFERSON

Yes, yes, Eagle, Old Eagle. (He straightens himself. The sunset light
deepens in color upon his face.)
Raggi, I have decided. You shall be our
agent to buy capitals in Italy.

RAGGI

In Italy. Of marble, signor? It is so firm to the chisel.

CORNELIA
(Softly, hands to her breast.)

Marble of Carrara?

JEFFERSON

White marble from the quarries of Carrara.

(Raggi goes off, and Cornelia turns away. Jefferson comes down the
steps to the lawn, his shadow yet a moment lying in the last path of
light.)