At Lincoln Center many years ago there was the legendary production in which young Ransom played both Pentheus and Bacchus. Tonight he stands at the back of the stage and announces:
His eyes are wide and blazing as he goes on to speak of his anger at the city and its ruling family—relatives who have disowned him and plans for vengeance.
In Greek drama, actors take multiple roles. With my back to the audience I wear a crown and am Pentheus; young, arrogant, full of hubris, speaking to what he thinks is a lunatic, ordering him imprisoned.
And all the time the chorus goes on chanting quietly, the drums beat. The silver disc shines on the stage.
Minutes later Ransom, young and severe, wears the crown and is Pentheus his face rigid and imperious. Tommy is a messenger describing the packs of maddened Bacchantes which include Pentheus’ own mother and aunts, destroying villages, tearing wild beasts and cattle apart:
Pentheus demands to see this for himself. Now I am Dionysius all golden hair and glowing face. I dress him in woman’s robes and lead him up the mountain while the chorus around us snaps their teeth like mad dogs. The night, the drums begin to take me. My eyes lose focus.
Then we are all supposed to exit except for Mary Kowal who remains onstage. Tomlinson passing by suddenly turns and bites her on the shoulder. She cries out, shoves him away. This is not acting and I hear the audience gasp. For a heartbeat everyone on stage stops. For a moment it seems that we might all start tearing at each other.
I know Ransom is being dead in the wings. He lies stretched out on the floor, mouth gaping, an expression of horror on his face. I’ve seen it many times.
It’s up to me. I grab Tomlinson, look right into his wild, staring eyes with all the authority of a priestess and the madness of an actor with forty-five years on the New York stage.
“Don’t waste this last chance, Tommy,” I whisper. His eyes focus and the troupe leads him off. Onstage Mary Kowal as a messenger describes how the Bacchae, maddened, fell upon Pentheus. Agave, his own mother, tore her son’s head from his believing he was a lion.
In the wings we form up in a tight group, pick up dead Pentheus and emerge onto the stage. And now I am Agave marching back into Thebes. In triumph I hold my son Pentheus’ bloody head by his mane of hair, his jaw flapping open. Foaming at the mouth I sing:
And the chorus chants:
Slowly Agave understands what she’s done. I stare with a face like a mask of horror. The drums cease. Suddenly the lights go down. One spot remains, shining on the silver disc above us. I stand shaking, catching my breath.
The players who carried Ransom and blocked sight of his while I held up his head put him down and escort him off silently.
My Moon Itch has begun to ebb. The lights come back up. I am alone on the stage.
There is applause. But I shake my head. This isn’t over.
“Euripides wrote,” I say, “when people had begun to forget the time when woman and god and man and beast weren’t as separated and distinct as they are now. But his was a time when all humans male and female were tied by nature to the cycle of the earth, were servants to the phases of the moon.
“They still understood what seems a terrible alien disease to us now and that sometimes it was best to let that beast run.”
Again there is applause. Ransom and company are behind me on the stage. It goes on for a while. We take our bows after which we’re supposed to make our exit up the center aisle. Instead Ransom holds up his hands.
He looks drained, old. He puts his arm around Tomlinson’s shoulder and around Mary Kowal’s. “There’s a story theater people tell about a great actor playing a great part. He comes off stage to tumultuous applause and storms to his dressing room in a black mood. ‘You were stupendous’ they say, why are you so unhappy?’
“‘I was incandescent,’ is his answer, ‘AND I DON’T KNOW WHY.’ ”
Ransom shakes his head, says in rich actor tones, “Ah, the mystery of ART! But what if you do know why your performance is terrific and the reason why isn’t you? What if you’re the drum and not the drummer, the brush and not the painter? What if you’re a tool intended to give everyone a glimpse of ourselves as we are by nature?
“Descended from hunters of flesh, born to a hunter of souls, I’ve become a hunter of applause. I’m as surprised as you by some of what happened here. But each night the earth will take a small bite out of the silver goddess. In a week’s time it will be sliced away and Josie and I and young Mr. Tomlinson and even Mary Robinette Kowal will be very ordinary actors indeed. Try to remember that when the moon is full,” he tells Tommy. “You’ll not get nearly as many second chances as I was given.”
I’ve heard him say much of this on many different occasions. But it’s one of the reason why, when he holds out his arm, I take it and walk with him up the aisle. A camera backs up before us.
People rise applauding and he smiles his way into the narrow lobby and out onto Commerce Street.
