NIGHT AT THE THEATER
Lo! Tis a gala night!
Within the lonesome
Latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged,
Bedight in veils,
And drowned in tears
Sit in a theater to see
A play of hopes and fears
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Lo! Tis a gala night!
Within the lonesome
Latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged,
Bedight in veils,
And drowned in tears
Sit in a theater to see
A play of hopes and fears
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Behold, gentle traveler, our proud Britannic home; step forth from your ship and walk the docks a while, with me. No harm will befall you in my company, for performers are well-beloved.
See the travelers from lands long past antique, now crawling forth again in yellow masks and full of appetites. They know that those who drove them hence, with many-headed watchful serpent and crimson-handed avenger, lie now in cordwood piles: a burning and an offering, and they are summoned thereby. These are men of lands of piping song and eternal summer, with much to sell, but do not mistake them for the tame merchants of Our Colonial Posessions. Ours is a world of new horizons.
That motley drama!
Oh, be sure,
It shall not be forgot,
With its phantom chased forevermore,
By a crowd that seize it not…
Oh, be sure,
It shall not be forgot,
With its phantom chased forevermore,
By a crowd that seize it not…
Look upward, traveler! See the homes of the merchant princes and two-penny Dukes, titles so new they smell of ink and venom and the blood that was shed. They cannot build outward, on our sinking fens, and they dare not build down, whence comes miasma and all-concealing mist. So upward they go, in tottering towers, cabled together. A new babel, where all men speak the same tongue and no two give it identical meaning. But I sense, my friend, that the pleasures of the courts are not meant for you- no bishops, queens, nor councilors do you crave.
Through a circle that ever returneth in,
To the self-same spot,
And much of madness,
And more of sin,
And horror the soul of the plot.
To the self-same spot,
And much of madness,
And more of sin,
And horror the soul of the plot.
Look down again, then. There are whores here; commercial product, mass-produced, with no better a smell than the slaughterhouses boast. And if the sluices that bring them forth are birthing mothers, well, so much the worse; does not blood cleanse, say the clergy? And does not fluid lust, salt and sweet, defile? Therefore so much cleaner the pig, than the babe, perhaps- although both find their share of blood, and both suckle as greedily, those few months before they find their employ.
The ephemeral bloom is sweetest, traveler, and these are girls who shall never be women, who trust and betray. The sailors pluck them ripe and bruise them; the strutting gentry, masked and cloaked, pluck them ripe or rotten, and eat them whole- not even bones remain, they say. Inquire of apothecaries if the latter is true. You recoil upon me! I am wounded, my friend, but glad indeed. You have no appetite for these things, and I applaud your character.
Out- out are all the lights,
Out all!
And over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush
Of a storm…
Out all!
And over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush
Of a storm…
Here is the theater, where I play. Mirdath had it from the count, who would have burned it for a half-crown or a smile; but ah, that would have been a shame. The outside’s timbered and I’ll not deny, unaesthetic- there have been many wings, you see, many additions. The backstage always needs a bit more room. But step inside, do. Just for a moment, just to see- and the night’s coming on, you know. There are worse things than whores here.
Ah! Yes, it takes you like that, doesn’t it? A thousand seats if it’s one, all in rows like tombstones, and all crimson and gold and royal. The lion’s colors, and a little of old Rome- they knew a bit about theater there. A full house, near as makes no difference, and I’m not surprised. The play tonight is Greed, and it’s always popular.
Oh, you weren’t to know. This is the Theater of Ends, you see- every night a different one, bawdy and grand alike. We show the end of it all, or our dream thereof. It’s a bit of a joke, you see, a bit of a folly, and it keeps us in bread that people want to see the world come to ash and ruin from this vice or that.
And the angels,
All pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm…
All pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm…
Yes, good old Greed. It’s a splendid play- at the end, they tear poor old Croesus to bits and gobble him up. It’s not entirely allegory; you can’t eat gold, after all. Did you see what it says above the door? Essurio, yes. It means hungry, if you’re posh. I, but a humble procurer, crave only custom.
I’ve seen what you’ve been looking at, though. It’s not the poor little freckled trulls whom you pity so, nor the tin-penny nobles you twist your face at. You watch the pimps and their purses, and oh how you hate those high houses, that you ought to own. Greed. Essurio.
What do you hate most in yourself, traveler? Stay, and we’ll salve it. There’s a private party, for the hungry, down below, upon the theme of the play. Stay a while. Eat gold for a night, and spend yourself on all the things it can buy, with the great and good at your feet. We will carry it for you, that stone in your heart. Gold is so, so heavy.
Stay. Eat.
Be eaten.
Yes, there’s a good lad.
Be eaten.
Yes, there’s a good lad.
That the play is the tragedy, “Man”
And its hero the conqueror worm.
And its hero the conqueror worm.
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