Part 10

VALSIN [_tossing the pistol to DOSSONVILLE_]. Call the lieutenant. [_DOSSONVILLE goes to the window, leans out, and beckons. VALSIN writes hastily at the desk, not sitting down._] "Permit the three women Balsage to embark without delay upon the _Jeune Pierrette_. Signed: Valsin." There, Citizeness, is a "permit" which permits. [_He thrusts the paper into the hand of ELOISE, swings toward the door of the inner room, and raps loudly upon it._] Come, my feminines! Your sailors await you--brave, but no judges of millinery. There's a fair wind for you; and a grand toilet is wasted at sea. Come, charmers; come! [_The door is half opened, and MADAME DE LASEYNE, white and trembling violently, enters quickly, shielding as much as she can the inexpressibly awkward figure of her brother, behind whom she extends her hand, closing the door sharply. He wears the brocaded skirt which MADAME DE LASEYNE has taken from the portmanteau, and ELOISE's long mantle, the lifted hood and MADAME DE LASEYNE's veil shrouding his head and face._]

VALSIN [_in a stifled voice_]. At last! At last one beholds the regal d'Anville! No Amazon--

DOSSONVILLE [_aghast_]. It looks like--

VALSIN [_shouting_]. It doesn't! [_He bows gallantly to LOUIS._] A cruel veil, but, oh, what queenly grace! [_LOUIS stumbles in the skirt. VALSIN falls back, clutching at his side. But ELOISE rushes to LOUIS and throws herself upon her knees at his feet. She pulls his head down to hers and kisses him through the veil._]

VALSIN [_madly_]. Oh, touching devotion! Oh, sisters! Oh, love! Oh, honey! Oh, petticoats--

DOSSONVILLE [_interrupting humbly_]. The lieutenant, Citizen Commissioner. [_He points to the hallway, where the officer appears, standing at attention._]

VALSIN [_wheeling_]. Officer, conduct these three persons to the quay. Place them on board the _Jeune Pierrette_. The captain will weigh anchor instantly. [_The officer salutes._]

ANNE [_hoarsely to LOUIS, who is lifting the weeping ELOISE to her feet_]. Quick! In the name of--

VALSIN. Off with you! [_MADAME DE LASEYNE seizes the portmanteau and rushes to the broken doorway, half dragging the others with her. They go out in a tumultuous hurry, followed by the officer. ELOISE sends one last glance over her shoulder at VALSIN as she disappears, and one word of concentrated venom:_ "Buffoon!" _In wild spirits he blows a kiss to her. The fugitives are heard clattering madly down the stairs._]

DOSSONVILLE [_excitedly_]. We can take the Emigrant now. [_Going to the inner door._] Why wait--

VALSIN. That room is empty.

DOSSONVILLE. What!

VALSIN [_shouting with laughter_]. He's gone! Not bare-backed, but in petticoats: that's worse! He's gone, I tell you! The other was the d'Anville.

DOSSONVILLE. Then you recog--

VALSIN. Imbecile, she's as well known as the Louvre! They're off on their honeymoon! She'll take him now! She will! She will, on the soul of a prophet! [_He rushes to the window and leans far out, shouting at the top of his voice:_] _Quits with you, Louis! Quits! Quits!_ [_He falls back from the window and relapses into a chair, cackling ecstatically._]

DOSSONVILLE [_hoarse with astonishment_]. You've let him go! You've let 'em _all_ go!

VALSIN [_weak with laughter_]. Well, _you're_ not going to inform. [_With a sudden reversion to extreme seriousness, he levels a sinister forefinger at his companion._] And, also, take care of your health, friend; remember constantly that you have a weak throat, _and don't you ever mention this to my wife_! These are bad times, my Dossonville, and neither you nor I will see the end of them. Good Lord! Can't we have a little fun as we go along? [_A fresh convulsion seizes him, and he rocks himself pitiably in his chair._]

[THE CURTAIN.]

THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE

_A DRAMATIC FANTASY IN ONE ACT_

By ERNEST DOWSON

_Performance Free_

Ernest Christopher Dowson, now generally known simply as Ernest Dowson, was born at the Grove, Belmont Hill, Lee, Kent, August 2, 1867, and died in London thirty-three years later. His schooling, because of his delicate health, was irregular, and he spent too short a time at Queen's College, Oxford, to take a degree. He lived abroad much, but during his sojourns in London in the 'nineties belonged to the Rhymer's Club[26] that met in an upper room of Johnson's own "Cheshire Cheese." His death from consumption brought to a close a life marred by waste and sordid associations.

[Footnote 26: Yeats has commemorated this club in the following lines in his poem, _The Grey Rock_:

"Poets with whom I learned my trade, Companions of the Cheshire Cheese."]

_The Pierrot of the Minute_, Ernest Dowson's only dramatic attempt, is touched like the preceding play with the glamour of the old regime. Its charming artificiality suggests the pastoral games to which the ladies and gentlemen of Louis XV's circle may have turned for relief after the formalities and extravagances of their life at court.

Dowson's play, written in 1892, is mentioned in one of his letters, dated October twenty-fourth of that year: "I have been frightfully busy," he wrote, "having rashly undertaken to make a little Pierrot play in verse ... which is to be played at Aldershot and afterwards at the Chelsea Town Hall: the article to be delivered in a fortnight. So until this period of mental agony is past, I can go nowhere." Anyone who has ever had to write something that had to be ready on a certain date will understand the quality of Dowson's emotion in this letter.

A recent critic who has studied the literary fashions of the group to which Dowson belonged and found that the members were addicted to the frequent use of the adjective, white, says: "Ernest Dowson was dominated by a sense of whiteness.... _The Pierrot of the Minute_ is a veritable symphony in white. He calls for 'white music' and the Moon Maiden rides through the skies 'drawn by a team of milk-white butterflies,' and farther on in the same poem we have a palace of many rooms:

"'Within the fairest, clad in purity, Our mother dwelt immemorially: Moon-calm, moon-pale, with moon-stones on her gown, The floor she treads with little pearls is sown....'"

When the play was given in this country at the McCallum Theatre at Northampton, Massachusetts, it was "staged in black and white, the garden set having black walls on which fantastic white forms were stenciled. The bench, the statue, and Pierrot and his lady love were in white. To have tried to depict a real garden would have crowded the small stage, so a garden was suggested, and by suggestion caught the spirit of the piece."[27]

[Footnote 27: Constance D'Arcy Mackay, _The Little Theatre in the United States_, New York, 1917, p. 97.]

Granville Bantock, the English musician, composed _The Pierrot of the Minute_. _A Comedy Overture to a Dramatic Phantasy by Ernest Dowson_, which he conducted at the Worcester Festival in 1908. This music in whole or part may be used in connection with a production of Dowson's play.

THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE

CHARACTERS

A MOON MAIDEN. PIERROT.

_SCENE._--_A glade in the Parc du Petit Trianon. In the center a Doric temple with steps coming down the stage. On the left a little Cupid on a pedestal. Twilight._

_Enter PIERROT with his hands full of lilies. He is burdened with a little basket. He stands gazing at the Temple and the Statue._

PIERROT.

My journey's end! This surely is the glade Which I was promised: I have well obeyed! A clue of lilies was I bid to find, Where the green alleys most obscurely wind; Where tall oaks darkliest canopy o'erhead, And moss and violet make the softest bed; Where the path ends, and leagues behind me lie The gleaming courts and gardens of Versailles; The lilies streamed before me, green and white; I gathered, following: they led me right, To the bright temple and the sacred grove: This is, in truth, the very shrine of Love!

[_He gathers together his flowers and lays them at the foot of Cupid's statue; then he goes timidly up the first steps of the temple and stops._]

It is so solitary, I grow afraid. Is there no priest here, no devoted maid? Is there no oracle, no voice to speak, Interpreting to me the word I seek?

[_A very gentle music of lutes floats out from the temple. PIERROT starts back; he shows extreme surprise; then he returns to the foreground, and crouches down in rapt attention until the music ceases. His face grows puzzled and petulant._]

Too soon! too soon! in that enchanting strain, Days yet unlived, I almost lived again: It almost taught me that I most would know-- Why am I here, and why am I Pierrot?

[_Absently he picks up a lily which has fallen to the ground, and repeats._]

Why came I here, and why am I Pierrot? That music and this silence both affright; Pierrot can never be a friend of night. I never felt my solitude before-- Once safe at home, I will return no more. Yet the commandment of the scroll was plain; While the light lingers let me read again.

[_He takes a scroll from his bosom and reads._]

"_He loves to-night who never loved before; Who ever loved, to-night shall love once more._" _I_ never loved! I know not what love is. I am so ignorant--but what is this?

[_Reads._]

"_Who would adventure to encounter Love Must rest one night within this hallowed grove. Cast down thy lilies, which have led thee on, Before the tender feet of Cupidon._" Thus much is done, the night remains to me. Well, Cupidon, be my security! Here is more writing, but too faint to read.

[_He puzzles for a moment, then casts the scroll down._]

Hence, vain old parchment. I have learnt thy rede!

[_He looks round uneasily, starts at his shadow; then discovers his basket with glee. He takes out a flask of wine, pours it into a glass, and drinks._]

_Courage, mon Ami!_ I shall never miss Society with such a friend as this. How merrily the rosy bubbles pass, Across the amber crystal of the glass. I had forgotten you. Methinks this quest Can wake no sweeter echo in my breast.

[_Looks round at the statue, and starts._]

Nay, little god! forgive. I did but jest.

[_He fills another glass, and pours it upon the statue._]

This libation, Cupid, take, With the lilies at thy feet; Cherish Pierrot for their sake, Send him visions strange and sweet, While he slumbers at thy feet. Only love kiss him awake! _Only love kiss him awake!_

[_Slowly falls the darkness, soft music plays, while PIERROT gathers together fern and foliage into a rough couch at the foot of the steps which lead to the Temple d'Amour. Then he lies down upon it, having made his prayer. It is night. He speaks softly._]

Music, more music, far away and faint: It is an echo of mine heart's complaint. Why should I be so musical and sad? I wonder why I used to be so glad? In single glee I chased blue butterflies, Half butterfly myself, but not so wise, For they were twain, and I was only one. Ah me! how pitiful to be alone. My brown birds told me much, but in mine ear They never whispered this--I learned it here: The soft wood sounds, the rustlings in the breeze, Are but the stealthy kisses of the trees. Each flower and fern in this enchanted wood Leans to her fellow, and is understood; The eglantine, in loftier station set, Stoops down to woo the maidly violet. In gracile pairs the very lilies grow: None is companionless except Pierrot. Music, more music! how its echoes steal Upon my senses with unlooked for weal. Tired am I, tired, and far from this lone glade Seems mine old joy in rout and masquerade. Sleep cometh over me, now will I prove, By Cupid's grace, what is this thing called love.

[_Sleeps._]

[_There is more music of lutes for an interval, during which a bright radiance, white and cold, streams from the temple upon the face of PIERROT. Presently a MOON MAIDEN steps out of the temple; she descends and stands over the sleeper._]

THE LADY.

Who is this mortal Who ventures to-night To woo an immortal? Cold, cold the moon's light, For sleep at this portal, Bold lover of night. Fair is the mortal In soft, silken white, Who seeks an immortal. Ah, lover of night, Be warned at the portal, And save thee in flight!

[_She stoops over him: PIERROT stirs in his sleep._]

PIERROT [_murmuring_].

Forget not, Cupid. Teach me all thy lore: "_He loves to-night who never loved before._"

THE LADY.

Unwitting boy! when, be it soon or late, What Pierrot ever has escaped his fate? What if I warned him! He might yet evade, Through the long windings of this verdant glade; Seek his companions in the blither way, Which, else, must be as lost as yesterday. So might he still pass some unheeding hours In the sweet company of birds and flowers. How fair he is, with red lips formed for joy, As softly curved as those of Venus' boy. Methinks his eyes, beneath their silver sheaves, Rest tranquilly like lilies under leaves. Arrayed in innocence, what touch of grace Reveals the scion of a courtly race? Well, I will warn him, though, I fear, too late-- What Pierrot ever has escaped his fate? But, see, he stirs, new knowledge fires his brain, And Cupid's vision bids him wake again. Dione's Daughter! but how fair he is, Would it be wrong to rouse him with a kiss?

[_She stoops down and kisses him, then withdraws into the shadow._]

PIERROT [_rubbing his eyes_].

Celestial messenger! remain, remain; Or, if a vision, visit me again! What is this light, and whither am I come To sleep beneath the stars so far from home?

[_Rises slowly to his feet._]

Stay, I remember this is Venus' Grove, And I am hither come to encounter ----

THE LADY [_coming forward, but veiled_]. Love!

PIERROT [_in ecstasy, throwing himself at her feet_].

Then have I ventured and encountered Love?

THE LADY.

Not yet, rash boy! and, if thou wouldst be wise, Return unknowing; he is safe who flies.

PIERROT.

Never, sweet lady, will I leave this place Until I see the wonder of thy face. Goddess or Naiad! lady of this Grove, Made mortal for a night to teach me love, Unveil thyself, although thy beauty be Too luminous for my mortality.

THE LADY [_unveiling_].

Then, foolish boy, receive at length thy will: Now knowest thou the greatness of thine ill.

PIERROT.

Now have I lost my heart, and gained my goal.

THE LADY.

Didst thou not read the warning on the scroll?

[_Picks up the parchment._]

PIERROT.

I read it all, as on this quest I fared, Save where it was illegible and hard.

THE LADY.

Alack! poor scholar, wast thou never taught A little knowledge serveth less than naught? Hadst thou perused ---- but, stay, I will explain What was the writing which thou didst disdain.

[_Reads._]

"_Au Petit Trianon_, at night's full noon, Mortal, beware the kisses of the moon! Whoso seeks her she gathers like a flower-- He gives a life, and only gains an hour."

PIERROT [_laughing recklessly_].

Bear me away to thine enchanted bower, All of my life I venture for an hour.

THE LADY.

Take up thy destiny of short delight; I am thy lady for a summer's night. Lift up your viols, maidens of my train, And work such havoc on this mortal's brain That for a moment he may touch and know Immortal things, and be full Pierrot. White music, Nymphs! Violet and Eglantine! To stir his tired veins like magic wine. What visitants across his spirit glance, Lying on lilies, while he watch me dance? Watch, and forget all weary things of earth, All memories and cares, all joy and mirth, While my dance woos him, light and rhythmical, And weaves his heart into my coronal. Music, more music for his soul's delight: Love is his lady for a summer's night.

[_PIERROT reclines, and gazes at her while she dances. The dance finished, she beckons to him: he rises dreamily, and stands at her side._]

PIERROT.

Whence came, dear Queen, such magic melody?

THE LADY.

Pan made it long ago in Arcady.

PIERROT.

I heard it long ago, I know not where, As I knew thee, or ever I came here. But I forget all things--my name and race All that I ever knew except thy face. Who art thou, lady? Breathe a name to me, That I may tell it like a rosary. Thou, whom I sought, dear Dryad of the trees, How art thou designate--art thou Heart's-Ease?

THE LADY.

Waste not the night in idle questioning, Since Love departs at dawn's awakening.

PIERROT.

Nay, thou art right; what recks thy name or state, Since thou art lovely and compassionate. Play out thy will on me: I am thy lyre.

THE LADY.

I am to each the face of his desire.

PIERROT.

I am not Pierrot, but Venus' dove, Who craves a refuge on the breast of love.

THE LADY.

What wouldst thou of the maiden of the moon? Until the cock crow I may grant thy boon.

PIERROT.

Then, sweet Moon Maiden, in some magic car, Wrought wondrously of many a homeless star-- Such must attend thy journeys through the skies,-- Drawn by a team of milk-white butterflies, Whom, with soft voice and music of thy maids, Thou urgest gently through the heavenly glades; Mount me beside thee, bear me far away From the low regions of the solar day; Over the rainbow, up into the moon, Where is thy palace and thine opal throne; There on thy bosom ----

THE LADY.

Too ambitious boy! I did but promise thee one hour of joy. This tour thou plannest, with a heart so light, Could hardly be completed in a night. Hast thou no craving less remote than this?

PIERROT.

Would it be impudent to beg a kiss?

THE LADY.

I say not that: yet prithee have a care! Often audacity has proved a snare. How wan and pale do moon-kissed roses grow-- Dost thou not fear my kisses, Pierrot?

PIERROT.

As one who faints upon the Libyan plain Fears the oasis which brings life again!

THE LADY.

Where far away green palm trees seem to stand May be a mirage of the wreathing sand.

PIERROT.

Nay, dear enchantress, I consider naught, Save mine own ignorance, which would be taught.

THE LADY.

Dost thou persist?

PIERROT. I do entreat this boon!

[_She bends forward, their lips meet: she withdraws with a petulant shiver. She utters a peal of clear laughter._]

THE LADY.

Why art thou pale, fond lover of the moon?

PIERROT.

Cold are thy lips, more cold than I can tell; Yet would I hang on them, thine icicle! Cold is thy kiss, more cold than I could dream Arctus sits, watching the Boreal stream: But with its frost such sweetness did conspire That all my veins are filled with running fire; Never I knew that life contained such bliss As the divine completeness of a kiss.

THE LADY.

Apt scholar! so love's lesson has been taught, Warning, as usual, has gone for naught.

PIERROT.

Had all my schooling been of this soft kind, To play the truant I were less inclined. Teach me again! I am a sorry dunce-- I never knew a task by conning once.

THE LADY.

Then come with me! below this pleasant shrine Of Venus we will presently recline, Until birds' twitter beckon me away To my own home, beyond the milky-way. I will instruct thee, for I deem as yet Of Love thou knowest but the alphabet.

PIERROT.

In its sweet grammar I shall grow most wise, If all its rules be written in thine eyes.

[_THE LADY sits upon a step of the temple, and PIERROT leans upon his elbow at her feet, regarding her._]

Sweet contemplation! how my senses yearn To be thy scholar always, always learn. Hold not so high from me thy radiant mouth, Fragrant with all the spices of the South; Nor turn, O sweet! thy golden face away, For with it goes the light of all my day. Let me peruse it, till I know by rote Each line of it, like music, note by note; Raise thy long lashes, Lady! smile again: These studies profit me.

[_Takes her hand._]

THE LADY. Refrain, refrain!

PIERROT [_with passion_].

I am but studious, so do not stir; Thou art my star, I thine astronomer! Geometry was founded on thy lip.

[_Kisses her hand._]

THE LADY.

This attitude becomes not scholarship! Thy zeal I praise; but, prithee, not so fast, Nor leave the rudiments until the last, Science applied is good, but 'twere a schism To study such before the catechism. Bear thee more modestly, while I submit Some easy problems to confirm thy wit.

PIERROT.

In all humility my mind I pit Against her problems which would test my wit.

THE LADY [_questioning him from a little book bound deliciously in vellum_].

What is Love? Is it a folly, Is it mirth, or melancholy? Joys above, Are there many, or not any? What is love?

PIERROT [_answering in a very humble attitude of scholarship_].

If you please, A most sweet folly! Full of mirth and melancholy: Both of these! In its sadness worth all gladness, If you please!

THE LADY.

Prithee where, Goes Love a-hiding? Is he long in his abiding Anywhere? Can you bind him when you find him; Prithee, where?

PIERROT.

With spring days Love comes and dallies: Upon the mountains, through the valleys Lie Love's ways. Then he leaves you and deceives you In spring days.

THE LADY.

Thine answers please me: 'tis thy turn to ask. To meet thy questioning be now my task.

PIERROT.

Since I know thee, dear Immortal, Is my heart become a blossom, To be worn upon thy bosom. When thou turn me from this portal, Whither shall I, hapless mortal, Seek love out and win again Heart of me that thou retain?

THE LADY.

In and out the woods and valleys, Circling, soaring like a swallow, Love shall flee and thou shalt follow: Though he stops awhile and dallies, Never shalt thou stay his malice! Moon-kissed mortals seek in vain To possess their hearts again!

PIERROT.

Tell me, Lady, shall I never Rid me of this grievous burden? Follow Love and find his guerdon In no maiden whatsoever? Wilt thou hold my heart for ever? Rather would I thine forget, In some earthly Pierrette!

THE LADY.

Thus thy fate, what'er thy will is! Moon-struck child, go seek my traces Vainly in all mortal faces! In and out among the lilies, Court each rural Amaryllis: Seek the signet of Love's hand In each courtly Corisande!

PIERROT.

Now, verily, sweet maid, of school I tire: These answers are not such as I desire.

THE LADY.

Why art thou sad?

PIERROT. I dare not tell.

THE LADY [_caressingly_]. Come, say!

PIERROT.

Is love all schooling, with no time to play?

THE LADY.

Though all love's lessons be a holiday, Yet I will humor thee: what wouldst thou play?

PIERROT.

What are the games that small moon-maids enjoy, Or is their time all spent in staid employ?

THE LADY.

Sedate they are, yet games they much enjoy: They skip with stars, the rainbow is their toy.

PIERROT.

That is too hard!

THE LADY. For mortal's play.

PIERROT. What then?

THE LADY.

Teach me some pastime from the world of men.

PIERROT.

I have it, maiden.

THE LADY. Can it soon be taught?

PIERROT.

A single game, I learnt it at the Court. I sit by thee.

THE LADY. But, prithee, not so near.

PIERROT.

That is essential, as will soon appear. Lay here thine hand, which cold night dews anoint, Washing its white ----

THE LADY. Now is this to the point?

PIERROT.

Prithee, forebear! Such is the game's design.

THE LADY.

Here is my hand.

PIERROT. I cover it with mine.

THE LADY.

What must I next?

[_They play._]

PIERROT. Withdraw.

THE LADY. It goes too fast.