V V 'I- page Fo uq PERSP9ECTIVE~S PER P TIVES SA-;VONAROLA " by Wallace Bacon PERSPECTIVES (EDITOR'S NOTE: Savonarola was a Florentine priest of the fifteenth century whose religi- ous fervor amounted to fanaticism. The Medici family for centuries had ruled Florence. They were the object of ceaseless attacks on the part of this priest who accused them of profligacy and grossness. The ,following scene from Mr. Bacon's play is based on a legend surrounding the death of Lorenzo Medici.) (The home of Lorenzo de Medici, some time later. The room, a bedroom, is richly furnished, in contrast with the severe furnishings of the convent San Marco. We see only a portion of the chamber-that part which is occupied largely by a curtained bed, the curtains drawn. Candles burn in the room, and two women are kneeling in prayer. GENNAZANO comes in softly and speaks to one of the women, who rises.) Gennazano. How is your master? Woman Sleeping, yet not well. Gennazano. What do the doctors say? Winan. He cannot live. Gdennazano. And does he know? Weman. He could not help but know. One does not send for priests when he is sure the morning will come in his eyes again. Gennazano. What do you mean-one does not send for priests? Woian. My lord Lorenzo asked for Savonarola. dennazano. For him? For him above all others? Why? Woman. Because it's he alone in Florence now whose prayers have answers from the sky beyond. I tell you I have seen divinity within his face when in the Duomo he cries out the wrath of God upon our state. There is a spire of faith which reaches out from man to his eternity, when love and trust provide the singing for one's prayers. Gennazalno. O blessed hypocrisy! Can you believe there's anything but vile am- bition there? The man's a mad one. Who but madmen think heaven has time to answer to their cries? Wcman. Lorenzo has not long to breathe, but he has sent for Savonarola. He of all who doubted wa the strongest in his doubt. Gennazano. It is his sickness. I must speak with him. Woman. You must not. Not even his son Piero may, and least of all you who have business at heart. Genntzano. It is a business touching on his wealth. Woman. What has a man to do with hammered gold when there is music in his ears, and death has drawn-him close and sings to him? Oh no, this business has been fatal to him now. (She goes back to her prayers. The door; in the left wall, opens again, and PIERO, LORENZO's son, enters. He is young, fastidious.) Gennazano. You come fast upon my need, Piero. He has sent for Savonarola. Piero. Don't I know? I was the one to walk the weary way and bring the bedeviled one. Gennazano. You? Picro. Yes, My God, I'm tired. And I was at my painting when they made me go- because an old sick man was half afraid to die. Why should I stay and grace a dying chamber while there are so many little pleasures for one's time? Gennazano. He's coming-Savonarola? Piero. Yes. My God, are you afraid of him? Gennazano. H'e showed no doubt when first you asked him? Piero. Yes, he cooled his heels about the garden for a while, and prayed-but then he prays at evrything. I had a bunch or two of grapes while I was waiting. Then finally he bore his bleak face in and said he'd come. Gennazano. How long before he'll come? Piero. I didn't ask, and didn't give a damn. I hope he's here before the old man dies. I expect it's easier to die confessed, although in either case-. My God, it's quiet ! Gernazano. We'll see. (He starts for the bed) Woman. (Restraining) You must not. Gennazano. Get out of my way. (He goes up to the bed, pulls the curtains. LOR- ENZO is half propped up on pillows, and is awake) Why have you called that monk to you? Lorenzo. You'll see, Gennazano, when you are about to die. Gennazano. But there are things that run so in the mind-his hatred of you and ofeme. The man has more compassion in him than is good for us and for our safety. Lorenzo. Have no fear. As long as there is money in our hands we are the masters here in Florence. Yes, with zeal and all the valor he can lend, his cause will go down fruitless while we have gold things that touch the hand. The heart is slow to feel reward. Gennazano. You believe you are-to die? Lorenzo. There is no doubting it. Gennazano. And what of me? Lorenzo. You've learned your place, my friend, and how to fill it. I have no fears for you. But by the God whom I may come to, let me not despair when I am dead to see you overcome this man from San Marco. Drag him to the earth and crush him where they'll spit upon his blood. I hate him with a beauty in my hatred, and you have come with me too far, my friend, to go back smiling to him. Gennaano. Yes, by God, and will go farther when you leave me, for I join you in your hatred, clasp your hand over his blood, and feel my body race with longing to break his visions upon the rack. Give me the ropes and let me string him up until he shrieks denial of his Lord. All that I've worked for he would take from me be- cause I've gone by darkened way a little. Had I not been content to use the knife where knife was necessary, it would be I down there upon the hills where he said men were animal because we hold the leash. Why, I would be a fool ever to think those men would love me-or that I'd love them. We've things to hold to, you and ?. No heart that sings to pity ever can control the waving sympathies of Florentines. oreizo; You have it in you, Gennazano-the will to rule, as I have held it in me all these years. Don't give it up without a fighting for, enuazano. Then why have you sent for him? Larenz. Because I die, and I am not so sure about this life and what fulfills it. He has served his God by way of prayer, and by the mother church has power to grant me absolution. He of all who grant it has the greatest will to do the right. Gennazano. He'll flaunt it in your face. Not even death will quiet him. omenzsWe'l see, There's hope that Borgia wins the papacy. Whatever happens, promise me this now-Watch over my son Piero, for he's young and apt to stumble where the road is rough. Breathe with a bitter breath upon the love this tavonarola promises his people.Bleed till you drop, but yield not to him. Ge kzano. Yes, I promise this-all this by twenty times. I'll lay his body at your tomb one day and say, "I've kept the promise of my love." Lorenzo, Go then, and wait outside until hes gone. Then come to me again. I would not die till you are by me. Gennazano. Very well Il go. (He goes out, left. PIERO calls him as he pulls the curtains about the bed) , Piero. Why don't you stay and talk with me a while? There's nothing else for me to do in here. (GENNAZANO leaves without speaking. PIERO sighs heavily, looks at the two women who are praying quietly, goes to the window in the right wall, and looks out. He starts to whistle, then catches himself, and is silent. He shrugs his shoulders, leans against the window casing as the door opens and SAVONAROLA, enters. Immediately the two women cease their prayers and rise, withdrawing to a corner upstage behind the bed. PIERO turns.) Piero. Oh, you. Savonarola. I'll see him now. Piero. He needs his rest. Savonarola. There will be time for resting. Pull the curtain. (One of the women comes down quietly and draws the curtain back from the bed. LORENZO looks out.) Savonarola. You knew I'd come? Lorenzo. I knew no man of God would fail a sick man in his need. Savonarola. It took a little blinding of my own desire. Lorenzo. Piero. go. You women with your prayers-go, all of you. Your prayers do me no good. (The women and PIERO leave the room, PIERO taking his own time about it. SAVONAROLA stands silently beside the bed.) Will you sit down? Savonarola. I shall not stay so long. Tell me your business now. There is no need for policy between us. Lorenzo. I am ill and ill to death. I ask that you will hear confession from my lips before I die, Savonarola. Your heart has changed? Lorenzo. My heart has changed, I think. Savonarola. You swear it is not that you are afraid? Lorenzo. I swear it. is not that I am afraid. Savonarola. You'll have the chance to prove it ere you die Lorenzo. You've been my enemy. Savonarola. And you know why. Lorenzo. Because I have been rich-and you've been poor. Savonarola. You speak of silver when your lips are numb with death, and when your fingers nnot hold so much as a single florin. Lorenzo. Should I not'? Don't all men envy what I've gathered here? Savonarola. Find me the man who envies what you've gathered-a wealth of sicknesses, and now you die before your time. Lorenzo. I'm not so sure I die. Savonarola. Why do you send for me? Lorenzo. (Crying out) Oh yes, I die! But I am not afraid. Savonarola. Find me the man who'd take your sickbed for the wealth you've won. No man nor woman either but would live upon the very earth and drink the rain rather than die for you and all your gold. (He goes to the window). What would you give to stand where I now stand and look upon the sun (pulling the curtain back) and feel it warm! What would you give to feel your breath go deep and purge the pestilence clean from your lungs? No, no man envies what you've gathered here. Lorenzo. (Angrily) I sent me for a priest-but you have come and robbed me of my quietness. Then go, and take your absolution. Send me a priest. Savonarola. I am a priest. And more, I am a man who prays for men, and suffers in their sin. Why did you think it would be easy now when all your life you've made it doubly hard? Why did you send for me of all the men in Florence who might hear your penitence? Lorenzo.. .Because-because you are the best. Savonarola. Oh no! You cannot pay for absolution though you've all the world in silver. I come not at so many ducats for a blessing that you buy heaven. No, you have in mind to reconcile me to the things you've done by slobbering in illness. I can see. All that you have will not be yours for long, and you would get it for your son before you die. Do you think death will end all this-this that I fight for? No, there's more at stake. Lorenzo. What gives a priest the right to meddle with things that concern him not? Savonarola. I know of none-of no such things which touch the life of men and yet concern him not? Lorenzo. You have your prayers, your long novenas, and your daily work. Are they not great enough to hold your mind to holy matters? Savonarola.. .What is holier than happiness-than freedom, for all men? God gave us love, and we have made of it something a little higher than our lust, and far below our hate. What do you know of love who sit within your gilded house and mark men out for death because their hopes reach higher in the light than yours? Lorenzo, you cannot buy a place in men's respect, or not for long. Your son himself is low in loving you. Lorenzo. They say you are a God and have dark visions from another hell. What can you say to that? Savonarola. (Flashing out) I say it's true that something in my sleep cries out for stars where only leaden clouds pass in the day. I know that something grips me in my breast and will not let me rest as other men. I have a vision, and it is from God! Someday you'll see-when all that I have said comes true for Italy. Some conqueror will come upon her vineyards And press out the rankest venom and unite her people. This cannot be so long as men like you, such petty tyrants, in your little minds have pictures of a vale of luxury and say "To hell with Florence!"' Lorenzo. (Flatly, after a silence) You will go and let me die unshriven? Savonarola. Make your peace with God now, if you will. I shall remain, Lorenzo. (Sitting up) But if it is too late-well, what's the use of bending to you? God, but it is hard to keep out hate of you. Yes, even now when I would ask for quietness in death. Savonarola. Then shall I go? Lorenzo. (Falling back, exhausted) Tell me, is it too late for making peace with Him? Savonarola. It is not late. Lorenzo. Then come to me. (SAVONAROLA goes to him, kneels beside the bed, takes his hand) No man has said me nay in all the years of my life, My God can do no less Hf I do ask Him. Savonarola. Ask Him, Ask. Lorenzo. Three things there are I would confess to dim. (Continued on Page 10) Paris. Among the writers in the first issue -were Andre Breton, Louis Aragon, gaul Eluard, Robert Desnos, Philipp6 Soupault, Joseph Delteil and Andre Mas- son. Surrealism had, in reality, three founders; Breton; Eluard and Soupault. Of these, two were physicians and neur- ological specialists, interested in the psychic and the sub-conscious and un- conscious life, and in the labors of such men as Freud and Bergson. The date 1924 does not represent the first attempts of the surrealists, but only the beginning of the movement as such. As early as 1921 Breton and Sou- palt published a surrealist volume en- titled "Les Champs Magnetiques." Later, Soupault said of that book, "It was at that period that Andre Breton and I discovered this process (at that moment we regarded it as but a process) which we named, in honor of Guillaume Appol- linaire 'surrealism.' We determined to make use of this manner of writing in getting out a book in a couple of weeks." This discovery was that part of surreal- ism known as "automatic writing." As Soupault's remarks would lead one to believe,- the term surrealist was first used by Appollinaire. In 1917, when he published his play "Les Mamelles de Tir- esias" he subtitled it "Drama Surreal- iste." With these beginnings, surrealism grew rapidly. Becoming powerful in Paris, its influence was felt in Germany, England, Spain and Italy. It came to the United States in the early thirties, and the first surrealist exhibition in this country was held in New York, at the Julien Levy Gallery during January, 1932. VI. through painting symbolist figures of the impressionist type. The founder of creationism is Vincent Huidobro, a Chi- lean, who no* lives and works in Paris. The following is an excerpt from his "Song of the Egg and the Infinite": The city flees in a gallop of words It fears Pincers of the trees and hands of the night The soul takes flight with the body hitched behind The soul lined with feathers and transparent comets When the tongue's treadle imitates the sea And a bird flies between the banks of memory Because it has a child that has lost its memory. * * *, * * punished for?" she inquired. "Are dates a kind of penalty?" "Why no," one of the girls replied laughingly. "Dates come under the head of pleasure." "But if they're not going to have a good time, why don't they stay home?" "Stay home!" The girl was horrified. "This is Friday. Nobody stays home on a Friday night." "Things are getting curiouser and curi- ouser," said Alice. Just then she heard a horrible buzz- ing. ALICE AGAIN (Continued from Page 3) Whither surrealism? die a sadden death, as Is it doomed to dada? Will it gain for itself a place in the sun, so that future generations will refer to the eras of classicism, romanticism, realism and surrealism? Or is it, in itself, just a stepping stone to the fourth era? Opinions differ widely on the first point. Julien Levy and other sympa- thizers, predict a future much greater in scope than any similar movement. Other voices say that surrealist paint- ing is dead already, but infer that sur- realist literature will live. Still others, mostly Americans, see the entire move- ment as a fake, already dead abroad, resurrected in this country by "sham salesmen" and the efforts of newcomer Salvador Dali. One may point to the number of sur- realist exhibitions being held all over the world as an indication of the present popularity of the movement. Again, the growing use of surrealism in adver- tising presents a fair indication, for sur- realist art is now selling soap, wine, furs, perfume, dresses, shoes and magazines. The up-swept hair-do and the chaotic hats (?) our women folk are now seen under may be traced to the surrealist influence. It is interesting to speculate on the results should surrealism become a le- gitimate movement as powerful as the realistic movement of the early part of this centUry. Should surrealism af- feet the play, the politics, even the be- havior of mankind as the surrealists predict, what will come of it? Breton provokes thought in saying Whatever reservations I might be inclined to make with regard to re- sponsibility in general, I should quite particularly like to know how will be adjucated the first misde- meanors whose surrealist charac- ter is indubitable. When surrealist methods extend from writing to action there will certainly arise the need of a new morality to take the place of the current one, the cause of all our woe. Surrealism is already the parent, proud or otherwise, of two offspring, postsurrealismn and creationism. It is interesting to note, and perhaps signifi- cant, that both attempt to produce the same sort of result as surrealism through intellectual methods. They are stylists ir the surrealist form. The postsurreal- ists form an American group led by Lorser Feitelson, a Californian. They are a small group expressing their ideas By CARL GULDBERG "What ki shecred. "That jus Don't be fri her. "Oh," sai stairs. As sh out she he shouts. "Come bac sign out." Someone s her hand an teen minute destination, tion, her vie experiences a "Be back c warned. "Fiv minute late." As they ca more, Alice I must suffer : sighed. "I know yo freshman beg always talkin asked him v . . .the fres "they're CO awfully frien( go to their m "That wou: As Alice an the meeting munists, they "Those are man explaim meeting they Wandering man observed a girl simu pounding a t were holding ly oblivious tc "It's obviou short lad wi explained as h ly at the asse "But we've contributed a "We've got to Her voice tra one was lister "Listen, list boy, "we've g Hitler. We co "We need one solemn, e mumbling r brought up. "I thought Alice. "What "They alwa freshman. "It tution." "What is a self heard al shouted. "Wh There was rades stared i gan. "She's a soc rushing towai conscious. She quacies of ou omy. She mu quick! She's 1 Alice and t terror. A co: hurled after t "Quick rur "They'll catc member. Run "How awful must be done "There's no the freshman "Nonsense, "I'll bring the munists, she president hew ter can helpw the March Hal sensible perso you how to s ye'll soon fix She grabbe -melted away c ed Cheshire C THE ALIEN SILVER (Continued from Page 1) gan to run through the crowd, he walked faster, jostling and pushing the people about him. He felt a sudden madness. seeming to see her face in front of him still, even though she ran with her back toward him.' He shouted, "Ellen! ELLEN!" running headlong. He fell to the ground heavily, but got up quickly, running blindly into the people stand- ing in his way. He still saw the face in front of him, too distant to touch and fast disappearing. He tried to touch the face with his hands, just to feel the -friendly flesh. Sweat streamed down his face, plastering the black hair to his wet forehead. Suddenly he began to feel the staring eyes of the crowd and ran out into the darkness, away from the carnival and the lights. He ran into the dark and cool fields, the wet grass whipping about his ankles. He ran out on the highway, seeing the headlights of a car coming toward him. Turning, he began to run toward the headlights, his fists thrust out before him, as if he sought to stop them with the power of his own body. The car .swiftly came closer. its headlights shin- mg on the boy as he stood with his arms stretched out in front of him. There was a squeal of tires gripping the dry .concrete; the car stopped only a few feet away. He ran toward it, pounding the sharp grilled radiator madly with his fists until they were raw and bleeding; then he dashed into the fields again. The people in the car were shouting, "Hey, You! Come back here. What's wrong with you, you damn fool, you want to get yourself killed?" He heard the voices clearly, although they were already faint with the inter- vening distance; he was still running, still fearing the voices and the crowd. He ran headlong into a low hedge and lay motionless in its resilient branches. His head hung loosely downward, the blood beating against the metal plate. He was crying now, with his head hang- ing down. scratched by the sharp twigs. When he awoke he began to walk aimlessly, his Joints stiff with the early morning cold. He walked slowly down the familiar road, feeling the friendly sand and gravel of the driveway into the farm. He walked into the house noisily, slamming the front door. When he looked up the stairway, he could see his mother standing on the landing above, framed vaguely in the half light of the window behind her. In the dark he could not see her face; as she walked toward him he began to ascend the stairs. Her arms out- stretched, she placed her hands on his shoulders as they met, pushing him down gently so that they sat beside each other. She caressed the scar on his head tenderly, rubbing her fingers back and forth in his hair. He could see his father on the landing now, looking down at them, motionless. Tired, he relaxed his muscles and leaned back on the stairs, trying to see his mother's face. Unable to see her, he reached out impulsively and touched her cheek, fondlingthe skin with the tips of his fingers, his mind full with the simple sensuous joy of the touch. He began to pinch the cheek, at first gently, then harder, until he felt the sharp slap on his cheek. She slapped him again, with regular punishing blows, but with- out moving away from him. She placed her arms about his head, holding it against the worn soft felt of her bath- robe, rocking back and forth until he fell asleep. * * * * .