University of Virginia Library

YADDO:

AN AUTUMN MASQUE.

PERSONS IN THE MASQUE.

• The Poet, George Parsons Lathrop
• The Pine Tree, Spencer Trask
• Winnapoca, W. B. Van Ingen
• Autumn, Mrs. Page-Brown
• Snowflake Miss Mia Potter
• A Star, Miss Lacey
• Avis, Miss Pardee

NOTE.

The scene is an enclosed garden-spot, separated from the Great Hall which serves as auditorium by two red marble columns, between which a broad space shows the grey-white mosaic pavement of the place, with a marble-rimmed fountain playing at back. Behind the fountain is a wall set with water-plants at the base, and in the upper part a long horizontal window gives glimpses of thick trees in the outer landscape beyond. At either end of the fountain are thickets of palms and tropical greenery mingled with small pines. Large boughs of oak and maple, and of apple bearing ripe fruit, overhang the lower shrubbery at intervals; and at one side in the wall, a stained glass window illuminating the legend of Winnapoca is seen.

In the corner at left the Pine-tree is discovered. He wears a coat of pine-cone armor interspersed with pine tassels and a helmet covered with pine plumes; and holds as a staff a tall dead pine-branch.

Enter, at left the Poet, in Greek costume, carrying a lute and a scroll. He moves slowly across to right, while speaking, and after a little seats himself upon a marble bench covered with white fur-skin, at that side.

Poet.

The Pine.
Yaddo!

Poet.
Spoke the tree?
Or was it echo? But if that name it be,
Why, unto Yaddo's word, I say Amen;
And yield me to its spirit's repose again.
Here dwells the rooted pine: so fain would I.
For none may willingly from Yaddo fly.
The birds depart,—but sadly; seasons fade,
Yet rise again like memories living made
At Yaddo's touch. Deep in yon winding dell
Clear coursing spring-streams that obey her spell
Pause, lake-bound. And the little waterfall
Veiling with shadowed silver its low rock-wall,
White under mellow maple crowns at noon,
Plays that in busy haste 'twill leave us soon;
But, while it leaps and rushes thro' the days
Of many months, and mimics flight,—it stays!

So, wrapt in murmurs of my fleeting song,
Here let me stay, a presence in the throng
Of fancies that seem real, and real things fused
With vision-fire. Even I am altered thus;
Turned Greek—through reading too much Aeschylus.
[A pause. The Poet, in revery, half drowses on the marble bench.]
Ha! What was that? I mused;
But surely, Pine, your mystic arms you swayed
With beckoning motion and obeisance made
To unseen powers, the while you chanted low.
What is the message you would have me know;
And what your function?
The Pine.
To greet and to protect:
Thy sky's free welcome I on friends reflect,
And o'er a sacred roof keep watch and ward.
Do as you will:—dream, touch the lute's fine chord
At ease, and gaze upon each passing form
My woodland lore brings forth from calm or storm.

[He moves to center; then, after bowing to Poet, goes to the left, and with waving arms and staff, beckons to some one without.]
[Enter Winnapoca. He draws his bow, with arrow pointing at the Poet.]
Poet
(Starts up.)
And who art thou?

Winnapoca.
(Bowing low)
A Chieftain, once of dread,
To warriors; but long since my body sped
To hunting grounds beyond the cloud and star;
Whence now, returning to old scenes of war,
I come, embodiment only to the sight—
Than vapor or dead leaves more swift of flight,—
Thro' which your day-glow as thro' glass may stream
Rich-hued, and make me breathing, living seem.

Poet.
But why, then, red man, freed from your red clay,
Bear you the burden still of arms that slay?

Winnapoca.
Because I am a messenger of peace.
Smile not; for even now I seek release
By laying these weapons humbly at the feet
Of her, this mansion's mistress wise and sweet.

Poet.
Who is she?

Winnapoca.
The Lady of Yaddo; and my name
Is Winnapoca, whom she brought to fame
In well-tuned legend. Once I loved a maid
Of her fair race and won her unafraid,
To be my wife. Long after we had gone,
The Lady Yaddo sang of our lost dawn;
And with her tender heart that aye recoils
At human strife and war's unholy spoils,
Praised gentleness in red men as in white.
Wherefore it is my roving soul's delight
To hover near her, and keep off all ill
Designed by evil demons' darkling will,
And now to honor her submissively
By proud surrender of my armory.

[Going to right.]
Poet.
Ay:—take me with you! Gladly would I pay
My homage to the maker of that lay.

The Pine.
(Interposing.)
Wait. Not yet is your mind for that prepared.

[Signs Winnapoca to go.]
[Exit right, Winnapoca.]
Poet.
Is honor to her a boon not to be shared
Even with this war-stained savage?

The Pine.
Hush!! I hear
The rustling step of one who draweth near
With stately coming. She may smooth your path.

[Crosses to left.]
[Enter Autumn.]
Autumn.
(Strewing leaves.)
Slow, slow from the aftermath
On summer's fields all shorn
Of their first ripe splendor, with memory tender
Of her sweet ways, we are wending slow;—
But not forlorn;
Since ever from death new beauty is born.

Poet.
Autumn! 'Tis Autumn here,—
Majestic queen of the year!
[Kneels before her.]
Thou who hast golden sunshine in thy heart.
Hast thou no gift for me?
Look not so grave. One smile
From thee, ere thou depart,
My steps to follow thine might well beguile.

[Rises.]
Autumn.
Poor Poet, I cannot linger. 'Tis for you
To dream and loiter all the seasons through,
Imagining you move, but waiting still—
And caught in nets of longing your fluttering will.

Poet.
But why may you not stay? Why lavish wealth
On the dull earth, when—as it were by stealth,
Unmissed—some rays of joy you might let fall
That would enrich my heart, my life enthral.

Autumn.
Nay, for your life's mate rather seek the spring.

Poet.
But she has flown—ah, whither?—on the wing
Of scattered blossoms; and I fear, ere long,
Thou'lt leave me but the memory of thy song.
Say why—so calm, possessed—thou wilt not wait?

Autumn.
I go to hail her whom with joy elate
The Graces chose o'er all this soul's demesne
To rule with love—thrice more than I a queen!

Poet.
Can it be she, again, whose name, once heard
The deep heart of the pine-tree softly stirred,
And then the Indian's warrior nature tamed?

Autumn.
Ay; she whose gentle glory long has flamed,
More meekly far than mine, a guiding light
On this fair hill; for were truth told aright,
Sweeter her bounty is than amber wine;
Richer than bending grain;—food, drink divine
Of pure compassion and invisible care
Enfolding high and lowly in equal share.
For her the pathway with these leaves I strew
That seeks her throne;—nor spare one smile for you:
Since all I have of gladdest or of best
I meetly bear to her, at love's behest.

Poet.
You humble me, indeed; but see, I dare
Still ask you, only let me with you fare
As servitor to carry fruit or sheaf.
[Tries to take them.]
Here, let me take them; and, with good belief,
Take you my hand, and lead me to her gates.

[Autumn evades him and moves to right.]
The Pine.
(To Poet.)
Forbear: your steps are barred still by the fates.

[Winnapoca re-enters at right, and silently commands Autumn to come.]
Autumn.
(To Poet, smiling.)
It is the hunter's moon:—with him I go.

[Exeunt.]
Poet.
A very wayward hunter's moon, I trow;—
Fitful and changeful: rather, a woman's moon!
O, Autumn, my imaged world of rest too soon
You break; for seeming slow, you swiftly vanish
And hope of ever renewing dream—spells banish.
But, tho' she mocked me in the latter while
With scornful mirth,—yet have I won her smile!

Pine.
She may come back, and in benigner mood.

Poet.
Old Pine-tree, go you back to where you stood
Erstwhile, and think how once even you were young,
[The Pine, protesting dumbly, goes back to his original place.]
In long ago dim decades, ere you flung
Your mossy witchcraft o'er my dazèd eyes!
Are these the pleasures of the paradise
In which you've snared me? I'll have none of it.
For you the false moon and lone owl's tu-whit:
For me, to follow on the fragrant trail
Of Autumn's sunny footprints thro' the dale.

[Going right.]
Pine.
Impatient and impetuous heart, bear heed
Of haste that overthrows. The winged steed
Of poets, your Pegasus even, may not o'ertake
A hope that destiny bids you forsake.
Ere you one half of yonder way can trace
Winter will clutch you in a cold embrace
And hold you frost-bound from your truer goal.
Already are his herald winds astir.
And snow-winged arrows from the keen North whirr.

Poet.
Then will I welcome here the chilly breath
That, love's warmth being denied me—may bring death.
But tell me, wizard of the wood, what shape
Is that which from dim vistas makes escape
[Looks off toward left.]
And hither, dancing wayward, sparkling white
Skims o'er the ground for motion's pure delight.

The Pine.
Almost a spirit, she—ethereal girl!
The Snowflake,—winter's white flower set awhirl
To warn us of his coming. But we glow
Afresh, and all our pulses quicker flow
In time accordant with her nimble feet:
And so, not warned but welcoming, we meet.

[Enter Snowflake at left, dancing across stage, with an icicled and snowy branch in one hand; scattering sparkling flakes with the other, in a shower. Then she sinks resting upon a tiger skin by the fountain.]
Poet.
(Going toward her.)
Poor child of air, art thou so soon grown faint?—
Robed white, pure-eyed, most like a little saint:
And such they say, live always, but not on earth
May dwell for long. Thou wast so full of mirth,
As now thou flewest toward us, glancing keen
Alive with thrilling diamond-lustred sheen:—
Look not as though wouldst not rise again
To float far glinting over wood and plain!
Shall I not help you with a faithful hand?

Snowflake.
Alas, kind sir, you do not understand.
The race of snowflakes is not like your own.
Sisters, although in multitudes, alone
We dwell; nor either knows the other's thought,
Howe'er with wealth of feeling deeply fraught.
[Rising, while the Poet tries to assist her.]
Most often swept in blind, uncounted showers,
We only do the will that is not ours.
Cold seem we, I know; and though in form so frail
No power of men against us may prevail
When, lightly falling, we stifle and benumb
The life within you. But woe is me, we are dumb!
We cannot tell you of our inmost pain
At harm so done; and you would guess in vain
The grief we suffer, our love for you, our fears,—
Save that you see us die in penitent tears.
Exiles we perish at your very door;
Nor could we take your help, tho' you implore;
For, 'neath our crystal shield, too sensitive,
We cannot feel one human touch, and live.

Poet.
Sweet wanderer, Mia, this is indeed a lot
Too piteous! How 'gainst nature shall we plot
To save you? But a brief while gone, I pined
For one who glowed with color and warmth entwined
Of earth's rich garlands. Now, at once—how strange
My tropic yearning in its polar change!—
Coldness and your pale robe of sacrifice
Have turned my hot blood to adoring ice.
Indeed, dear Snowflake, feel my palm and see
How frigid I have grown,—and all for thee!

Snowflake.
You are a poet. I can trust your heart,
But not your fancy mirroring your art.
Howe'er so faithfully cold, in wish, to me—
Think, of chance ardor what the cost would be:—
My instant death! Nay, take this little branch
That snow safe nestles on and ice drops blanch:
For if you truly love me, its true curve
Remembrance to bring back to you may serve.

[Turns toward the Pine.]
Poet.
Gave Autumn of her largess but one smile?
And Snowflake would content me with this wile
Of flowerless twigs? When two, at such extremes,
Alertly hold me thus aloof, there seems
[Touches his heart.]
Some flaw here at the midmost point 'twixt both.
Yet, so responsive unto each, I'm loth
To think my heart's clear flame mere flickering blaze.
Since Autumn-love is lost in tremulous haze,
And snow-love dies if once its barriers melt,
Then otherwhere the answer I have felt
Awaits my question must lie mute, concealed;
And since it rings not out on earth's wide field,
May it be dormant in my poor soul's home?
Or will it sound to me from heaven's clear dome?

Snowflake.
(close to the Pine, sings:)
Through the trackless air,
A silvery host we fare,—
Sunlit, moonlit, debonair;
White as doves in night's deep blue:—
Yet lost while we live,
And forgot when we die.
Who, then,—ah, who?—
To the Snowflake will give,
Compassionate, true,
The shrift of a sigh?

Poet
(earnestly.)
No, little one,—you must not pass away!

The Pine Tree.
(under whose arm she has crept.)
Come, croon no more, my child, that mournful lay,
But shelter 'neath my cool and shadowy arm
That, for a while, may keep thee from all harm.

Snowflake.
One way I know to save me from swift end.

Poet.
And that?

Snowflake.
Win Lady Yaddo for my friend.

Poet.
White little sister, what could even she do,
Since any mortal's touch means doom to you?

Snowflake.
Oh, I have heard, and truth I know it is,—
A whisper from our realm's high mysteries,—
The Lady Yaddo's loving is so fine,
So delicate, so surely can divine
A way to and the nature of all need;
That in her ministering no danger lies.
Not cold her sympathy, yet so rare and wise,
Her ardor angelic could ne'er bring death to me.
Ah, let me see her, and I shall live to be
Her winged attendant, her white butterfly—
An emblem of the soul that cannot die!

The Pine.
Trust me, dear Snowflake, thy desire to win:
But here no longer tarry, breathing in
This air too fervent. Hie you whence you came:
Awaiting word there; and, lest winter blame
Your strange returning, waft to him my prayer
That where he lies encamped he will abide
Until the Pine-tree's plan success betide.
Fly!

Snowflake.
Father Pine, thy will I gladly obey.
[To Poet.]
And you, new friend,—I grieve I cannot say
My love for you, the silence of my race
Forbids to show. Yet who had thought your face
Would yield to shadow at thought of one like me,
A waif wind-tossed on life's immensity!

[Exit left, moving pensively. Poet rests once more upon the bench.]
Poet.
Kindness for me she carries, then, in flight
Borne nearer heaven, now, thro' falling night—

The Pine
And night will bring the star of hope in youth,
Of home and calm, whose radiant eyes of truth
Have shone upon me thro' a thousand glooms
And rippled with silver spray my sombre plumes,
From the unfathomed past to yester eve,
Yet flash forever young! For they believe,—
Those eyes of hers; and eyes that keep their faith
Die not, nor pass among the spheres a wraith
Of their lost selves. Immortal, therefore, shines
This star above our brotherhood of pines
And oldest oaks: yet we, my friend, wise trees,
Communing with the sun or midnight breeze
And lofty heaven, have learned the unvoiced word
That brings her here to talk with us unheard
Amid the forest aisles.

The Poet.
Celestial air
Streams this way thro' the trees. I fancy, there,
A pale blue light advancing flits and weaves
Swift gleams on withered bolls and scrolls of leaves!
[Exit the Pine, left. Enter the Star at right. The Poet bends to her.]
How shall I hail thee, Star?

Star.
As star of home!
Long hast thou waited the hour when I should come,
My Poet, unaware of thy desire.
But now burns lower in thee the world's fire,
And leaves thee sight for heavenly messengers.

Poet.
Thou camest then for me?

Star.
To give thee spurs
For new and strong endeavor.

Poet.
I know not how
To answer thy clear gaze and cloudless brow
With speech.

Star.
Then answer with thy heart and eyes.

Poet.
To be deemed fit by thee is honor and prize
Beyond all worth of mine, sweet lady of night!

Star.
Thou hast not wholly read thyself aright,
If thou so measurest. Thou may'st truly be
All of the best that thou behold'st in me,—
Which mine is only as I, too, in turn,
The meaning of still higher power discern.
'Tis eye to eye, and soul to soul, that bind
Those who the universal clew would find:
Flinch in the gazing, and our sight is lost,
Or at false, broken angles, truth is crossed.

Poet.
Till now I ne'er so deeply, without fear,
Into such starlit dusk of eyes could peer
As thine, O Star of Home! But, mortal, I:
Thou deathless dwellest in unattainèd sky.

Star.
There; but on earth as well! For these are one
When law, faith, love throb in sure unison.
Know then, that o'er the spot where now we stand—
A holy of holies, yet open on every hand—
I, by ordainment, as now unto thy sight,
Or shining from the heavens' azure height,
Rain bliss of peace on Yaddo and glory of joy,
Not foes or death himself may quite destroy.

Poet.
At last the colored vapors round me fade:
The soul of things shines forth, in light arrayed!

[Muses, on the bench.]
The Star.
(Crossing to left.)
Grieve not; grieve
No more at misty eve,
When you see no Home-star gleam on high.
Sleep, and still believe
She is somewhere nigh.
Grieve not, nor fear
If murky dawns appear,
Or the Home-star seem no more to burn.
Still her blessing's near:
Faithful she'll return.

[Exit, left.]
Poet.
Faithful I must believe her, tho' even the Pine
Forsakes me, and by all the fickle line
I'm left forlorn on Yaddo's threshold here;—
Not one returning; no chance companion near.

[Sighs.]
[Enter Avis, right.]
Avis.
O Poet, do not doubt! I heard you sigh:
But they will come again:—would you know why?
Change there must be, yet never all one way.
I am the Chimney-swallow, here, and all the day
And all the year to Yaddo's hearth I cling:
Yet even I can change! For I took wing
To journey; and almost flew beyond this shade.
And here I changed—my mind! I turned and stayed,
See, now, I'll find our Pine-tree and the Star,
And Autumn and the rest—
[Exit, left; meeting and then re-entering with the Star and Snowflake and the Pine.]
They were not far;—
Nor you forsaken long. Come back! Come back!
[Runs to and fro, calling the other absent ones.]
The Poet wants you all to live in verse;
And ere you play at life, you must rehearse.

[Enter Winnapoca and Autumn, right.]
Star.
(To Poet.)
Did I not promise?

Poet.
Yea; thine eyes spoke true!
[To the Pine.]
'Tis good to see these gathered here with you!
And now, stern warder, whose probation hard
Delayed me, am I still from Yaddo barred?

The Pine
No longer, friend; for patience and good will
Your aspirations and your ready thrill
Responsive, to the voice of star and tree
In pure ideal wisdom, have set you free:
You now may enter Yaddo undeterred.
Point you the way, late-coming little bird!

To Avis)
[All step from the stage and advance into the great Hall, where the Lady of Yaddo sits enthroned among her friends.]
The Star.
(As they advanced.)
With blithe hearts now, and thoughts like flowers
Abloom within these manor bowers,
And reverence hidden in maskings gay,
We come glad honor here to pay.

[They move forward in a semi-circle, Snowflake dancing ahead at one end, and Avis at the other; the Poet in the middle of the curve, with the Star at his left and Autumn at his right.]
[In this order they halt in front of the

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Lady's chair, half surrounding it.]
[Snowflake drops suppliant beside her, letting one hand rest trustfully on the Lady's lap.]
[Avis goes to her other side and kneels.]
[Winnapoca, bending low, places his weapons at Lady Yaddo's feet, with a gesture of renunciation.]
Autumn.
(Presenting her sheaf with fruits and leaves.)
Dear Lady, the leaves that are about to die
Salute you with a rainbow prophecy
Of life that spring anew shall bring their kind
And nature-love in you undying find.
[The Pine, going behind the Lady's chair, plants his staff and takes his stand as warder there.]
[Poet, kneels, offering her his scroll.]
This scroll, in thy enriching memory set,
May add a jewel to thy life's coronet
Not all unmeet; for sympathy of thine
Should make love's value glow in every line.
Take, then, the treasure its very depths conceal,
And so its kinship with thy love reveal.

[The Star, waving her lighted sceptre poised above the Lady's head, and holds it there.]