Doctor Vysarius

[Void and darkness before the curtain and a low, auspicious hum. Then, bright spot on a crowbar thrust under the lid of a wooden box. The lid’s torn back–groan of metal on wood and long, ragged nails.

A hand reaches into the box–the hand of the astronomer, LEOPOLD–removes a parcel, swathed in dark velvet. The parcel is unwrapped–it is a disc of perfect, polished glass, about the size of a dinner plate. He holds it up to his face–his eye is magnified, huge, wet, searching–and carries it to a telescope on a high mount. Scaling a ladder to reach its widest end, he carefully slides the lens inside and re-applies the end-cap.

He stands back to observe his handiwork–proud. He moves toward the eyepiece, lays one hand on the shaft of the scope, brings his eye up to its aperture.

The spot goes out.

Curtain rises. White light. A hundred-hundred censers hang from long, gold chains – no sound, but the slight creak and clang of their long-hanging.

Now, some soft breeze to trouble these chains, to make them pendulate. They smoke as all they swing–this burning’s fragrant, floods the stage with coiling, blooming white.

And unseen angels sing their high troparia, like nested crystals underground would sing, if they could sing–cold, hard, glittering indifference to worldly pain.

The smoke clouds all. Behind the censers, the faint flashing of a burning triangle within the clouds. Then, a dark figure rises and slowly glides from left to right.

Lights fade. Immediately, and with a mechanical “thunk,” spot on LEOPOLD, who moves away from the telescope, suddenly fearful, and throws a sheet over it.

Blackout.]