Act
I, Scene 1
Prelude
The play begins with the opening of
Debussy's music for his opera Pelléas et Mélisande. The lights gradually go up, just enough to
reveal a dense forest. At about bar 10
(bassoons) the first hints of a flashlight beam appear, shining through the
trees and the mist. Over the next few
bars we see glimpses of a person behind the trees. At bar 14 someone is obviously struggling to
make his way forward. (He carries a cane
but apparently as much for ornament as necessity.) By bar 24 he leans against a
tree, exhausted. He is a CRITIC,
lost. The music must fade out by bar 29
of the score (the voice entrance in the opera), at which point the CRITIC sighs
deeply.
CRITIC: (Very slowly, in spirit of
the music) My God, where in the world...? (Reading a map)
Impossible...This map...Ah--
(He throws
it down sighing and stands.)
How could I have gotten into this...? Strange. I ttracked the beast day by day. I had it in my sights--
Gone! Now the crowd is waiting, hungry for every word, and I've been... somehow sidetracked. Damn...
(The
lights go up farther and the CRITIC spies MÉLISANDE, with golden hair, dressed as a
storybook princess. She sits weeping at
the edge of a fountain.)
CRITIC: Wait a minute, a
girl...No, a woman.
(He
coughs but MÉLISANDE takes no notice. He
goes nearer and touches her on the shoulder.)
MÉLISANDE (Springing up):
Ne me
touchez pas! Ne me touchez pas!
CRITIC: Don't worry, I won't touch
you...won't hurt y--God, you're beautiful.
MÉLISANDE: Don't touch me! Do not!
Or...I'll throw myself into the water...
CRITIC: I won't touch you. My word. (He backs up to a tree.) Has someone hurt you?
MÉLISANDE: Oh yes, yes...yes...(She
weeps profoundly.)
CRITIC: Well...who?
MÉLISANDE: Everyone! Everyone...
CRITIC: (Trying not to sound
confused) Yes, je comprends...I'm with you...But what have they done?
MÉLISANDE: I...cannot say. I...will not say...
CRITIC: We should find some
help...Where have you come from?
MÉLISANDE: I've escaped! Escaped...
CRITIC: Yes, but from where?
MÉLISANDE: I am lost...
CRITIC: (Sighing) Indeed...
MÉLISANDE: I am not from here...I was not born
there...
CRITIC: But where are you
from? Where were you born?
MÉLISANDE: Oh, far from here...Very far...
CRITIC: (Peering at the fountain) What is that, sparkling in the water?
MÉLISANDE: Where? Oh, that is the crown he gave me. It fell, when I was...weeping.
CRITIC: Who gave you a crown? Let me get it for--
MÉLISANDE: No!
I don't want it anymore. I'd
prefer to die at once.
CRITIC: Really, the pool isn't
deep.
MÉLISANDE: No!
I don't want it. If you touch
your hand to the water, I'll throw myself in.
CRITIC: (Raising his hands) All
right, pace. A shame, though;
it's an elegant crown...(softly)
brilliantly stylish...Is it long since
you escaped?
MÉLISANDE: Yes, yes...Who are you?
CRITIC: I've begun to wonder.
MÉLISANDE: You already have grey hair.
CRITIC: In the last hour, yes.
MÉLISANDE: And your--Why do you look at me like
that?
CRITIC: Your eyes...you never seem
to shut your eyes.
MÉLISANDE: No, you're wrong,
I close them at night...Why did you come here?
CRITIC: I was stalking a kind of
beast...I seem to have taken a wrong
turn.
MÉLISANDE: I begin to feel cold...
CRITIC: Please, you'd better come
with me...You look very young...How old--What is your name?
MÉLISANDE: Mélisande.
CRITIC: Mélisande. Mélisande. Yes, it rolls from the tongue, it hints of--I like it. Well, Mélisande, you'd better come with me.
MÉLISANDE: Je reste ici...
CRITIC: Je reste ici. That's unfortunate. Look, you can't stay here, you'll freeze to death. Give me your hand--
MÉLISANDE: Don't touch me!
CRITIC: I'm sorry, I was
being...insensitive. As you will, Mélisande, I hope to see you
again. (He turns to leave.)
MÉLISANDE: Where are you going?
CRITIC: I don't know. By ill luck I am...misplaced.
Act I,
Scene 2
He walks away. The lights go down on MÉLISANDE. As the CRITIC wanders about talking to
himself (below), the lights come up on a cafe front. At a typical French cafe table is sitting the
older ERIK SATIE (SATIE1). He
wears a goatee, a pince-nez and a bowler hat while he smokes a cigar and drinks
cognac. SATIE's umbrella lies next to him on the table. During the following
monologue the background music can be a vamp from 0:40-1:06 on the recording of
Debussy's Danse Extatique et Final du Première Acte from
Le Martyre de saint Sebastian.
CRITIC: Mélisande, a unique name...ineluctable
girl. But reticence carried beyond...How is it
that she ends up here? For that matter, how is it that I,
with satellite navigation, find
myself--
SATIE1: --wandering on the tangent plane
between zero and infinity, Monsieur?
CRITIC: (Not hearing) Yes...How strange.
(Music here.)
I was methodically
stalking the latest trend. Pen in hand, I had deftly captured
its vital statistics. Birthplace--
recorded; date of birth--noted; direction of travel--north by northeast. Its growth in popularity was squarely in my sights when
(Hearing
SATIE loudly swat a mosquito, the critic looks up.)
Ah, perhaps my quarry...
(He
walks over to SATIE.)
SATIE1: (Puffing on his cigar) Mosquitos.
CRITIC: Yes, they're extremely...hardcore.
SATIE1: Undoubtedly sent by the Freemasons.
CRITIC: (To himself) Curious pre-historic
reference.
SATIE1: (Tracking a mosquito) They remind me of Wagner--
CRITIC: (To himself) Yet
another. Tonight's scenario is full of
surprising plot turns.
SATIE1: --unavoidable. (He swats.)
CRITIC: Sir--
SATIE1: (Examining the dead mosquito) One
less Valkyrie.
CRITIC: (To himself) No trend potential
here. The fellow is too far-out
to be followed.
(To audience) Does that need translating? No?
Good.
(If yes: The fellow is
strung-out on weirdness.)
Still, with a minor dustoff he might do well in a Vaudeville revival...(Shaking his head) No,
I'm late and I'm expected; I'd best be on my way.
(To SATIE) I salute you,
sir, could you perhaps tell me where I am?
SATIE1: Perhaps, but although my information
may be inaccurate, it is not guaranteed.
(SATIE
continues puffing. CRITIC waves away
smoke.)
CRITIC: Is this some breach of civility on my
part?
(Still no response.)
CRITIC: Is this old-fashioned rudeness on your
part?
(Still no response.)
CRITIC: (Paging through an electronic
notebook) Or perhaps your sensibilities should be filed under neo-Me-ism?
(SATIE
begins to laugh hysterically, then suddenly covers his
beard with his hand.)
CRITIC: Sir, you might consider putting
childhood behind you.
SATIE1: You are correct, Monsieur. But you see, I have
had the misfortune to be born very young in
a world that is very old.
CRITIC: I am sorry--for your sake and
mine. I'll find my own way, thank you.
(He begins to walk off.)
SATIE1: In my experience, Monsieur, where you
are invariably depends on where you have been. It is a law of nature, very much like the survival
of the fittest: those who arrive have traveled.
CRITIC: (Returning) That's
quite good; very...high concept.Monsieur? Répétez s'il vous plait.
SATIE1: Monsieur.
CRITIC: A remarkably authentic accent, where did you pick it
up? And your clothes,
definitely...Eurocentric. Yes,
they have...presence. But if I may offer
a word of advice, Eurocentrism is passé along
with nuclear fission...
And on the subject of
clothes, you might consider investing in some new
ones. Poverty has never been
fashionable.
SATIE1: Once more you are right, but I've
always preferred to live with my thoughts in poverty than in
comfort without them.
CRITIC: Thoughts? Were they
a trend? Well, this has been a diverting
few executive minutes but I must go. Will you at least point me in a
significant direction?
SATIE1: (Pointing) Five kilometers that
way--Arcueil. Five kilometers that way--
CRITIC:
SATIE1: A telephone? Inside I should think--
(CRITIC
ducks inside.)
SATIE1: --but I have no use for such
contrivances.
CRITIC: (Reappearing) Is
the term "credit card" widespread in these parts?
(SATIE
shakes his head.)
What year is this?
SATIE1: Logic would dictate no later than
1925.
CRITIC: 1925.
(Counting on his fingers) So the numbers did go back that far.[1] But the forest I passed through...not
SATIE1:
CRITIC: Yes, I met someone crying...Mélisande.
SATIE1: Ah.
CRITIC: You know of her?
SATIE1: Everyone knows of her.
CRITIC: (Shaking his head) I don't.
SATIE1: No one knows her. What do you wish...?
CRITIC: She's alone in a forest--
SATIE1: Forget her.
CRITIC: Harshly put. But perhaps a post-trauma
center? Some terrible misfortune has befallen her and
she's a mere girl...a woman; pre-woman.
SATIE: You hesitate.
CRITIC: (Offhandedly, but with a little doubt) Well, it is always important to use
the proper terms in the counterhegemonic attack on existing paradigms.
SATIE1: Would you speak in some...terrestrial
language.
CRITIC: All I meant is that it's difficult to say how old she
is. With
such hair...(He shrugs.) But she's alone and... (sympathetically) not hip to the Zeitgeist.
SATIE1: Strange, every word that leaves your
mouth sounds as if it flew from someone else's.
CRITIC: Of course, marketability equals
conventionality.
SATIE1: An eternal truth, but it could be
spoken with such concision only by an
American.
CRITIC: We do have the knack for
compression. In fact I consider the sound bite
the ultimate achievment of the 20th century.
Imagine, the time alloted
to express a thought has become less than the time physically required to utter
it. With the exhilarating
result--tah-ta-dah--everyone is
totally incomprehensible. (He demonstrates:) In my
opinion--down with--speaking
with us from Har--the--matter of national--that was--of course you--we bring you now--to
a--always--commercial interruption--
SATIE1: I approve.
CRITIC: I'm surprised.
SATIE1: Mais non,
I owe much to Christopher Columbus and his successors. The
American spirit has from time to time tapped me on the shoulder and I have been
delighted to feel its ironically glacial bite...Now, since you seem so displaced, why don't you join me for a
drink.
CRITIC: A drink in the Twilight Zone--I like
the flavor of it. But drinking is so...unvegetarian.
Mineral water, if you don't mind.
SATIE1: (Into cafe) Garcon! (To CRITIC) Tell me how you ended up on the
road between Arcueil and Paris.
CRITIC: It's far from clear. I was tracking a new artistic trend--so new
it didn't even have a proper
"ism"--and it led me into the forest.
But something tells me you have very
little interest in art.
SATIE1: I shit on art.
CRITIC: I suspected.
SATIE1: And what is your stance on this new
trend? Pro or con?
CRITIC: Definitely two thumbs up. The latest trend is always the best and-- (knowingly) most profitable.
SATIE1: I take it that you consider
yourself--
CRITIC: --the spirit of the age, a--
SATIE1: --some sort of--
CRITIC: --cultural overseer. A--
SATIE1: In other words, a--
CRITIC: --critic.
SATIE1: (Simultaneously)--critic!
(He
sits there blinking his eyes regularly, as if stunned.)
CRITIC: Do you have a nervous tic, Monsieur?
SATIE1: To the contrary, I am always dazzled
by the presence of a critic. He shines so brightly that I am forced to blink an hour or
more at a time.
CRITIC: We are pleased to acknowledge your
tactile humility. Still, what word has prompted
this?
SATIE1: Monsieur, you misunderstand. I have always wanted to be a critic--a tiny one of course.
CRITIC: Why keep your sights so low? There's zero virtue in half measures.
(Enter
WAITER.)
SATIE1: Garcon, Perrier for our guest and
more cognac for me.
(Exit
WAITER.)
(To CRITIC) Well--how to
explain?--there are three kinds of critics. The important
ones, the middle-sized ones, and the insignificant ones. The last two categories do not
exist.
CRITIC: Ah, the conceit dissolves: a parodist
who feigns sincerity.
SATIE1: Mais non,
I am on your side. In fact, one can't
sufficiently admire the first
critic who ever appeared in the
world. The rude inhabitants dwelling in that ancient Time
of Night undoubtedly received him with
a kick in the pants. Not realizing, of
course, that he was a mere forerunner
to a great species.
CRITIC: (Archly) I think you are bored with ennui,
Monsieur.
SATIE1: Physically, the species has come to
resemble a double bassoon. I refer to the
critic's serious countenance, which results from the burden of knowledge he is forced to
carry. The critic's brain is like a
department store. It contains everything--orthopaedy, science,
bedding, the arts, travel
rugs, a wide range of furnishings, optical instruments...The critic sees everything, hears everything, touches everything,
moves everything
and yet somehow manages through all this to go on thinking. Not merely thinking, but knowing; in fact he
knows everything. What a man--!
CRITIC: Enough! The tensions of the new are about to explode
into a figurative slugfest. What is yourroué vocation, Monsieur?
SATIE1: I?
I of course am a phonometrician.
CRITIC: Oh, I see, a hack--phonometrician?
SATIE1: Can it be? A trend you haven't cataloged? Allow me, Monsieur, to demonstrate.
(SATIE
goes offstage and wheels in a large contraption. It should probably have a large horn, as on
an ancient grammophone player, several knobs and dials, springs and scales.)
CRITIC: What is that eclectic...mechanism?
SATIE1: This eclectic mechanism, Monsieur, is
a phonometer. With it I measure sounds. La, please.
(The CRITIC is silent.)
La, I repeat the
request. Are you deaf?
(CRITIC
sings a note.)
SATIE1: Yes, deaf. Fa,
very well. (Twiddling dials) Twenty-five, 24, 22--no--23
grams. Insubstantial.
CRITIC: Very clever, a saint in the guise of
an anarchist.
SATIE1: Hamartia, ancient Greek for
"To completely miss the mark."
Do you know, the first time I used a phonoscope, I examined a B-flat of average dimensions. I can assure you I never in my life saw
anything quite so repulsive. I had to call my servant in to look at
it. Garcon!
CRITIC: I must admit the kinetic elements of
your contraption have a certain constructivist appeal.
SATIE1: A wanderer awash in alliteration is
warned to wade ashore without--There was also the time I
measured an F-sharp at 93 kilograms. Ninety-three kilograms! It came out of a very fat tenor.
CRITIC: And you're wearing very thin.
SATIE1: What haven't I measured with a
phonometer? All Beethoven, all Verdi. Rimsky-Korsakov even--ugh. Weightless.
(Enter
WAITER.)
SATIE1: More cognac, please. I think I can assert that phonology is far superior to music.
It's more varied and more renumerative--I owe my fortune to it entirely. (He reveals empty
pockets.) In any case, with a motodynaphone,
almost anyone can note down
more sounds than the most skillful of musicians. That is why I have been able to write so much. There is a great future in it. I offer you one word: philophony.
CRITIC: How dare you accuse me of
extraterrestrial vocabulary when I note with pleasure that your excesses
equal my own.
SATIE1: Vous rigolez, Monsieur, mine
are far worse. You have yet to hear my "Electric Vocations"--
(They
begin to circle each other.)
CRITIC: Mere playful significations of power
disruptions--
SATIE1: But "Everlasting and
Instantaneous Hours"--
CRITIC: --can only trivialize--
SATIE1: --"Crustaceans with Sessile
Eyes"--
CRITIC: --the pervasive historical modes--
SATIE1 --from
my "Dessicated Embryos."
CRITIC: --and one is left with--
SATIE1: "Chapters Turned Inside
Out"--
CRITIC: --and a strange--
SATIE1: "Mysterious Waltz of the Kiss in
the Eye."
(SATIE
kisses CRITIC in the eye.)
CRITIC: --lingering sensation of...
(They
sit down again.)
Those
words...titles?
SATIE1: Exactly, Monsieur Critique.
CRITIC: Your own?
SATIE1: Astonishing perception.
CRITIC: You are a musician.
(Enter
WAITER.)
SATIE1: (Accepting a cylinder of cognac)
Another Perrier.
(Exit
WAITER)
SATIE1: (To CRITIC) A misanthrope, a
hypochondriac, the most miserable of
men. But a
musician--never.
CRITIC: A composer.
SATIE1: (He bows) Erik Satie, Monsieur, with
a "k."
CRITIC: Then your ancestors hail from the
North?
SATIE1: No, I changed my name from
"Eric" to "Erik."
CRITIC: (Puzzled) Oh, I see.
SATIE1: I said "k."
CRITIC: Why?
SATIE1: "K" is a more decisive
letter. Besides, one should shed one's
skin regularly.
CRITIC: Actually, your name is familiar. You wrote those Gymnopédies somomentarily fashionable in the
sixties.
(The 3rd
Gymnopédie for piano begins.)
SATIE1: How can that be? They were composed only in 1888 when I was
22.
CRITIC: The 1960s.
SATIE1: Ah, you are a man of the future. Yes, that was obvious... And after eighty years, you say, my Gymnopédies are still my
only works to receive attention? Aah, I am not surprised. Shortsighted by birth I have always been long-sighted by
nature. The world will never catch up with me.
CRITIC: Yes, Erik Satie, a minor
turn-of-the-century composer--
(SATIE
slams his umbrella down on the table, jumps up and begins to beat the CRITIC,
who retreats, protecting himself with his cane.
The music fades out.)
SATIE1: You miserable piece of shit, not fit
to slither in the slime of this earth...Crass word-stringer,
ignorant of the sacred character of Art--
(The
WAITER appears and disappears in fright.)
SATIE1: (Making lunging motions at the CRITIC) I challenge you to
a--(He begins to cough.) I challenge you--
(Breaking in to a
coughing fit) I--Ah, I am too old...
CRITIC: (Trying to help him) Are you all
right?
SATIE1: Don't touch me! Don't touch me, you vile, ignominious traitor
to the sublime...
CRITIC: Please, accept my apologies. My remark was inexcusably...dilatory, conventional wisdom from the hip--
SATIE1: (Straightening his jacket)
Unsurpassed boorishness...The decadence of your age has recoiled upon you.
CRITIC: (Seriously) I apologize.
SATIE1: In my younger years for such an insult
I would have banished you from my sight forever. No, I would have had you shot, vain
terrorist...
CRITIC: (Stiffening) I'm sorry,
I've now repeated myself twice. (Twisting his leg)
Ow.
SATIE1: You have a bad leg?
CRITIC: Rarely. An old accident.
SATIE1: Well, that's too bad. Nevertheless, Monsieur Critique, do you not realize
who condescends to speak to you?
CRITIC: Erik Satie.
SATIE1: Do you not realize that I am
responsible for every musical "ism" of the twentieth
century?
CRITIC: Please, infinity is a large number.
SATIE1: I speak quite seriously, Monsieur, I
am the spirit of your age.
CRITIC: No, I am, I have already said it. The spirit that accepts, a
perfect blank to
be written on, two thumbs always up.
SATIE1: We seem to have a disagreement.
CRITIC: A wager then.
SATIE1: A pact, nothing I like better. By evening’s end, I shall prove to you
beyond a shadow of a doubt that I invented
the twentieth century.
CRITIC: And I will prove to you that nothing
you may have invented remains, that all is erased.
SATIE1: And he who remains standing shall
win--?
CRITIC: The twentieth century.
SATIE1: What a prize! I forfeit--
CRITIC: (Simultaneously) I give up...No, this
won't do. Make it a free trip for two to
SATIE1: Very well, where to begin? First things first. Which is closer to the spirit of your age, that Gymnopédie or
this, written only a year later?
(We hear
a suitably bombastic excerpt from Mahler's First Symphony. During musical excerpts actors should behave
appropriately; i.e. conduct, pretend to play instruments, pace, etc.)
SATIE1: Concede.
CRITIC: Never.
You might as well claim this is the spirit of the age:
(We hear
a few seconds of a currently popular piece of rock music.)
SATIE1: Hmm.
Discouraging... Well, there is of
course Mélisande--
CRITIC: What?
SATIE1: Here I claim only to have been
midwife--
CRITIC: You--?
SATIE1: I'd advise you to forget her.
CRITIC: I already had. But someone should help her, out of unflavored decency...
SATIE1: There's nothing for it. Her fate is sealed.
CRITIC: Why?
SATIE1: The past is a closed book to you,
isn't it? Mélisande inspired a generation.
CRITIC: Not mine. Concede.
SATIE1: What has inspired yours?
CRITIC: The quickness of time.
SATIE1: I might have guessed.
CRITIC: Where is she from?
SATIE1: She is a dream.
CRITIC: Yours?
SATIE1: The world's.
CRITIC: Stop.
Your world is gone.
SATIE1: I'd say yours is.
CRITIC: Where is she from?
SATIE1: You said she was gone. The case is closed.
CRITIC: Where is she from? She is not your style.
SATIE1: Do not be so sure. Still, you cannot know her--
CRITIC: We speak of a wager.
SATIE1: Mystery must be respected.
CRITIC: Narrate, or the game is mine.
SATIE1: You will not be satisfied.
CRITIC: Narrate. Time has stopped.
SATIE1: As you wish. It is a long story...
CRITIC: Begin.
SATIE1: The year was 1891 and I was playing
in