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Under each column a guest is seated, stiff and lifeless as a waxwork: They are old, wrinkled, painted, bedaubed and ridiculous. The women guests are dressed in silk, satins, tinsel, and gaudy jewels; the men are like expensive, pompous dolls, some in uniform, some covered with orders, others in black and white clothes; they are all quite expressionless.
In the centre of the room young men and girls are dancing the polka, and they dance and disappear in and out of the columns. The figure in grey stands in one corner of the room and two-thirds of his candle have been consumed. The guests talk. Here is the beginning of their conversation—
“I must observe that it is a great honour to be invited to the Man’s ball.”
“You may add that this honour is given to extremely few. The whole town tried to get asked; very few were chosen. My husband, my children and myself are all proud of the honour the most highly-to-be-honoured Man has paid us.”
“I am sorry for those who were not asked, they will not be able to sleep all night for envy; and to-morrow they will invent calumnies about the tediousness of the Man’s ball.”
“They never saw such magnificence.”
“You might add such extraordinary magnificence and luxury.”
“And I say such enchanting and unceasing amusement. If this is not amusing I should like to know what is amusing!”
“Stop; it is useless arguing with people who are tormented by envy. They will say to you, that the chairs on which we are sitting were not of gold at all.”
“That they were the simplest wooden chairs bought at a second-hand shop!”
“That there was no electric light here, but ordinary tallow candles. They will have the face to deny that the pictures had such broad, gold frames. I seem to hear the sound of gold.”
“You see its gleam; that is enough, I think.”
“I seldom enjoyed music so much as at the balls of the Man. It is divine music and it lifts the soul into the higher spheres.”
“I should hope that the music was good considering what is paid for it; you should add that this is the best orchestra in the town; it plays on the greatest occasions.”
“You hear this music long afterwards; it takes the soul captive. My children, when they return from the balls of the Man, keep on humming the music a long time afterwards.”
And they continue to talk in detail of the splendour of the house of the Man, of his riches, of his many rooms, his numerous houses, his wonderfully appointed bathrooms, and they all say in chorus—
“How rich!”
“How splendid!”
“How gorgeous!”
“How rich!”
The Man and his wife pass through the ballroom. The Man has grown grey, but still seems strong and full of life; the wife is still pretty. The Man is followed by his friends and his enemies. His friends have good countenances and his enemies look horrible and evil. And as they pass the guests vie with each other in praises of the Man and his wife, with applause for the friends and hisses for the enemies. When they have passed through to supper, the guests begin to grow anxious lest they have been forgotten, and when at last they begin to grow convinced of this, one of them says, “I cannot understand, I must frankly own, why we came to a house with such a reputation. One should choose one’s acquaintances more carefully.” At that moment a man in a gorgeous livery enters and announces that the Man and his wife beg their honoured guests to come to supper.
The guests all file off, saying in chorus, “What a livery! What music! How gorgeous! How rich! What an honour! What an honour!”
The next scene is the misfortune of the Man. He has lost his money, he has sold all his possessions, even his books. His one servant, an old woman, tells this, and how there is nothing left in the large house but rats; and how a fresh misfortune had just happened. The Man’s child went for a walk, and some wicked person threw a stone at him and broke open his head, and now he is lying sick and in danger of life. The doctor comes and tells the anxious Man and his wife, who are now old and worn (for the candle the grey figure still holds in his hands is almost burnt down to its socket), that their son is asleep and will probably get better. The Man looks at his drawing-table. “Look,” he says to his wife, “I began to draw this when our boy was still well; I stopped at this line and thought ‘I will rest and go on later.’ Look what a simple and quiet line! And yet it is terrible to look upon, for it may be the last line which I drew when my boy was still alive.” Then he finds his son’s toys on the table; their presence there used to make his work easier. They were bought in the days of the Man’s poverty; a little wooden horse without a tail, and a squeaking clown. The Man remembers how he used to talk to his little boy playing with the gee-gee. “Where are you galloping to, gee-gee?” “Over the hills and far away, papa, to kill the dragon because I’m a knight.” Then the Man and his wife kneel and pray that their son may not die. Anything else, but not that. The mother says, “Let my son live.” And the Man’s prayer is as follows:—
“See, I pray to Thee, I bend my aged knees; I grovel in the dust before Thee, I kiss Thy earth. Perhaps I have offended Thee: if so, then forgive. It is true I was hard, envious, exacting: I often blamed myself; wilt Thou forgive me? If such is Thy will, punish me, only leave me my son; leave him, I pray Thee. I do not ask for mercy nor for pity, but only for justice. Wicked men tried to kill him—those who offend Thee with their works and make Thy earth hideous. Wicked, pitiless ruffians! who throw stones from behind corners, from behind a corner, the ruffians! Do not let them accomplish their evil work. Staunch the blood; give back life to my son who is so good. Thou didst take everything from me, but did I ever pray as a suppliant: ‘Give me back my riches, give me back my friends, give me back my talent’? No, never; even for my talent I never prayed. And Thou knowest what talent is—it is greater than life. ‘Perhaps it must be so,’ methought, and I bore everything—I bore everything. But now I pray on my knees, in the dust, kissing the earth, let my son live! give my son back his life. I kiss Thy earth.”
And then the wife goes to see after the child, and the Man falls to sleep on the sofa and dreams happy dreams of his boy.
And the grey figure speaks and says even now, while the Man is dreaming happily, his son has died. The Man awakes and his wife returns, and he asks if his son is dead, and she answers “Yes.” The wife falls at the Man’s feet and cries bitterly, and the Man turns to the grey figure and curses his life and the day when he was born.
The fifth and last scene is the death of the Man. It is in an underground cellar where drunkards are laughing and raving. The Man sits apart and alone with his head buried in his hands. His wife is dead, his house is empty; there is nowhere for him to go, he is utterly alone and he is dying, for the candle in the hands of the grey figure has almost burnt out. The old crones who appeared in the first scene of all return once more; they talk and they repeat the set phrases of the guests at the Man’s ball: “How rich! How gorgeous!” They dance round the Man to the tune of the foolish polka which was played at his ball. “Do you remember?” they whisper. “You are going to die. Do you remember? ‘How rich! How gorgeous!’”
The dance of the crones grows wilder and swifter, and at last the Man raises himself and cries, “Where is my sword and my shield? I am disarmed—help! Be cur...” and he falls on a chair and dies. The candle in the hands of the grey figure goes out. The grey figure says, “Be still! The Man is dead.” The crones sing and dance round the dead Man to the sound of the foolish polka, but at last all grows dark and there is silence.
This play might have been written eight hundred years ago. And whatever happens to the world, as long as men exist, it will be understood. It could be played in Chinese without losing one jot of its import or its message; it is outside of time and place, independent of man’s fleeting customs and various manners, for it merely repeats the cry of pain uttered in sublime accents by the Hebrew poet, and re-echoed by all suffering singers in all times and countries, from Aeschylus to Leopardi. But it only shows one side of the mysterious medal; there is another, a shining side which other poets have seen and sung: Dante, Goethe, and Shelley, for instance, in his “high and passionate” “Adonais,” when he says—
“Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,
Stains the white radiance of eternity.”