Part 11

[_They continue playing, until PIERROT catches her hand._]

PIERROT [_laughing_].

'Tis done. I win my forfeit at the last.

[_He tries to embrace her. She escapes; he chases her round the stage; she eludes him._]

THE LADY.

Thou art not quick enough. Who hopes to catch A moon-beam, must use twice as much despatch.

PIERROT [_sitting down sulkily_].

I grow aweary, and my heart is sore. Thou dost not love me; I will play no more.

[_He buries his face in his hands. THE LADY stands over him._]

THE LADY.

What is this petulance?

PIERROT. 'Tis quick to tell-- Thou hast but mocked me.

THE LADY. Nay! I love thee well!

PIERROT.

Repeat those words, for still within my breast A whisper warns me they are said in jest.

THE LADY.

I jested not: at daybreak I must go, Yet loving thee far better than thou know.

PIERROT.

Then, by this altar, and this sacred shrine, Take my sworn troth, and swear thee wholly mine! The gods have wedded mortals long ere this.

THE LADY.

There was enough betrothal in my kiss. What need of further oaths?

PIERROT. That bound not thee!

THE LADY.

Peace! since I tell thee that it may not be. But sit beside me whilst I soothe thy bale With some moon fancy or celestial tale.

PIERROT.

Tell me of thee, and that dim, happy place Where lies thine home, with maidens of thy race!

THE LADY [_seating herself_].

Calm is it yonder, very calm; the air For mortals' breath is too refined and rare; Hard by a green lagoon our palace rears Its dome of agate through a myriad years. A hundred chambers its bright walls enthrone, Each one carved strangely from a precious stone. Within the fairest, clad in purity, Our mother dwelleth immemorially: Moon-calm, moon-pale, with moon stones on her gown, The floor she treads with little pearls is sown; She sits upon a throne of amethysts, And orders mortal fortunes as she lists; I, and my sisters, all around her stand, And, when she speaks, accomplish her demand.

PIERROT.

Methought grim Clotho and her sisters twain With shriveled fingers spun this web of bane!

THE LADY.

Theirs and my mother's realm is far apart; Hers is the lustrous kingdom of the heart, And dreamers all, and all who sing and love, Her power acknowledge, and her rule approve.

PIERROT.

Me, even me, she hath led into this grove.

THE LADY.

Yea, thou art one of hers! But, ere this night, Often I watched my sisters take their flight Down heaven's stairway of the clustered stars To gaze on mortals through their lattice bars; And some in sleep they woo with dreams of bliss Too shadowy to tell, and some they kiss. But all to whom they come, my sisters say, Forthwith forget all joyance of the day, Forget their laughter and forget their tears, And dream away with singing all their years-- Moon-lovers always!

[_She sighs._]

PIERROT. Why art sad, sweet Moon?

[_Laughs._]

THE LADY.

For this, my story, grant me now a boon.

PIERROT.

I am thy servitor.

THE LADY. Would, then, I knew More of the earth, what men and women do.

PIERROT.

I will explain.

THE LADY. Let brevity attend Thy wit, for night approaches to its end.

PIERROT.

Once was I a page at Court, so trust in me: That's the first lesson of society.

THE LADY.

Society?

PIERROT. I mean the very best. Pardy! thou wouldst not hear about the rest. I know it not, but am a _petit maitre_ At rout and festival and _bal champetre_. But since example be instruction's ease, Let's play the thing.--Now, Madame, if you please!

[_He helps her to rise, and leads her forward: then he kisses her hand, bowing over it with a very courtly air._]

THE LADY.

What am I, then?

PIERROT. A most divine Marquise! Perhaps that attitude hath too much ease.

[_Passes her._]

Ah, that is better! To complete the plan, Nothing is necessary save a fan.

THE LADY.

Cool is the night, what needs it?

PIERROT. Madame, pray Reflect, it is essential to our play.

THE LADY [_taking a lily_].

Here is my fan!

PIERROT. So, use it with intent: The deadliest arm in beauty's armament!

THE LADY.

What do we next?

PIERROT. We talk!

THE LADY. But what about?

PIERROT.

We quiz the company and praise the rout; Are polished, petulant, malicious, sly, Or what you will, so reputations die. Observe the Duchess in Venetian lace, With the red eminence.

THE LADY. A pretty face!

PIERROT.

For something tarter set thy wits to search-- "She loves the churchman better than the church."

THE LADY.

Her blush is charming; would it were her own!

PIERROT.

Madame is merciless!

THE LADY. Is that the tone?

PIERROT.

The very tone: I swear thou lackest naught. Madame was evidently bred at Court.

THE LADY.

Thou speakest glibly: 'tis not of thine age.

PIERROT.

I listened much, as best becomes a page.

THE LADY.

I like thy Court but little ----

PIERROT. Hush! the Queen! Bow, but not low--thou knowest what I mean.

THE LADY.

Nay, that I know not!

PIERROT. Though she wear a crown, 'Tis from La Pompadour one fears a frown.

THE LADY.

Thou art a child: thy malice is a game.

PIERROT.

A most sweet pastime--scandal is its name.

THE LADY.

Enough, it wearies me.

PIERROT. Then, rare Marquise, Desert the crowd to wander through the trees.

[_He bows low, and she curtsies; they move round the stage. When they pass before the Statue he seizes her hand and falls on his knee._]

THE LADY.

What wouldst thou now?

PIERROT. Ah, prithee, what, save thee!

THE LADY.

Was this included in thy comedy?

PIERROT.

Ah, mock me not! In vain with quirk and jest I strive to quench the passion in my breast; In vain thy blandishments would make me play: Still I desire far more than I can say. My knowledge halts, ah, sweet, be piteous, Instruct me still, while time remains to us, Be what thou wist, Goddess, moon-maid, _Marquise_, So that I gather from thy lips heart's ease, Nay, I implore thee, think thee how time flies!

THE LADY.

Hush! I beseech thee, even now night dies.

PIERROT.

Night, day, are one to me for thy soft sake.

[_He entreats her with imploring gestures, she hesitates: then puts her finger on her lip, hushing him._]

THE LADY.

It is too late, for hark! the birds awake.

PIERROT.

The birds awake! It is the voice of day!

THE LADY.

Farewell, dear youth! They summon me away.

[_The light changes, it grows daylight: and music imitates the twitter of the birds. They stand gazing at the morning: then PIERROT sinks back upon his bed, he covers his face in his hands._]

THE LADY [_bending over him_].

Music, my maids! His weary senses steep In soft untroubled and oblivious sleep, With Mandragore anoint his tired eyes, That they may open on mere memories, Then shall a vision seem his lost delight, With love, his lady for a summer's night. Dream thou hast dreamt all this, when thou awake, Yet still be sorrowful, for a dream's sake. I leave thee, sleeper! Yea, I leave thee now, Yet take my legacy upon thy brow: Remember me, who was compassionate, And opened for thee once, the ivory gate. I come no more, thou shalt not see my face When I am gone to mine exalted place: Yet all thy days are mine, dreamer of dreams, All silvered over with the moon's pale beams: Go forth and seek in each fair face in vain, To find the image of thy love again. All maids are kind to thee, yet never one Shall hold thy truant heart till day be done. Whom once the moon has kissed, loves long and late, Yet never finds the maid to be his mate. Farewell, dear sleeper, follow out thy fate.

[_The MOON MAIDEN withdraws: a song is sung from behind: it is full day._]

THE MOON MAIDEN'S SONG

Sleep! Cast thy canopy Over this sleeper's brain, Dim grow his memory, When he awake again.

Love stays a summer night, Till lights of morning come; Then takes her winged flight Back to her starry home.

Sleep! Yet thy days are mine; Love's seal is over thee: Far though my ways from thine, Dim though thy memory.

Love stays a summer night, Till lights of morning come; Then takes her winged flight Back to her starry home.

[_When the song is finished, the curtain falls upon PIERROT sleeping._]

_EPILOGUE_

[_Spoken in the character of PIERROT_]

_The sun is up, yet ere a body stirs, A word with you, sweet ladies and dear sirs, (Although on no account let any say That PIERROT finished Mr. Dowson's play_).

_One night not long ago, at Baden Baden,-- The birthday of the Duke,--his pleasure garden Was lighted gaily with_ feu d'artifice, _With candles, rockets, and a center-piece Above the conversation house, on high, Outlined in living fire against the sky, A glittering_ Pierrot, _radiant, white, Whose heart beat fast, who danced with sheer delight, Whose eyes were blue, whose lips were rosy red, Whose_ pompons _too were fire, while on his head He wore a little cap, and I am told That rockets covered him with showers of gold. "Take our applause, you well deserve to win it," They cried: "Bravo! the_ Pierrot _of the minute!" What with applause and gold, one must confess That_ Pierrot _had "arrived," achieved success, When, as it happened, presently, alas! A terrible disaster came to pass. His nose grew dim, the people gave a shout, His red lips paled, both his blue eyes went out. There rose a sullen sound of discontent, The golden shower of rockets was all spent; He left off dancing with a sudden jerk, For he was nothing but a firework. The garden darkened and the people in it Cried, "He is dead,--the_ Pierrot _of the minute!"_

_With every artist it is even so; The artist, after all, is a_ Pierrot-- _A_ Pierrot _of the minute, naif, clever, But Art is back of him, She lives for ever!_

_Then pardon my Moon Maid and me, because We craved the golden shower of your applause! Pray shrive us both for having tried to win it, And cry, "Bravo! The_ Pierrot _of the minute!"_

THE MAKER OF DREAMS[28]

_A FANTASY IN ONE ACT_

By OLIPHANT DOWN

[Footnote 28: Copyright, Feb. 1, 1913, in the United States by Oliphant Down. Reprinted by special arrangement with Gowans & Gray, Ltd., Glasgow.

Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that this play is fully copyrighted under the existing laws of the United States, and no one is allowed to produce this play without first having obtained permission of Samuel French, 28 West 38 Street, New York.]

_The Maker of Dreams_ by the late Oliphant Down was first given at the Royalty Theatre in Glasgow, November 20, 1911. The design for the setting here reproduced was used when the play was acted in March, 1915, at The Neighborhood Playhouse in New York. The picture does not show how touches of red here and there in the scene, and the brilliant blue sky, visible through the quaint windows, enhanced the character of the black and white of the walls and of the flower pots. The back wall of the set was mounted on casters and, while Pierrette slept, moved silently off stage, to disclose to the audience a formal garden at the back, where a miniature Pierrot and a tiny Pierrette did a joyous little dance, thus suggesting to the spectators Pierrette's happy dream.

Pierrot, the hero of this and of the preceding play, has had an interesting stage history. To understand him fully we have to go back to the comedy of masks that had fully developed in Italy by the time of the Renascence. This comedy was a special kind of play, the scenario of which only was written, the dialogue being improvised by the individual players. Each player wore a costume and a mask that never changed, and these fixed his identity. Most of the parts had a strong local flavor, the pedant, for example, hailing from Bologna, the overly shrewd merchant, from Venice. Many of the characters have become fixed types and reappear under their old names in various forms of modern drama. Pantaloon, Harlequin, Columbine, Punch and Judy, and Pierrot are among those who live on in modern drama. There is an enchanting play by Granville Barker and Dion Clayton Calthrop called _The Harlequinade_, that describes in a popular way the devious and uncertain paths traveled by these stock characters down the ages.

Pierrot's ancestry is not so clearly Italian as the others. Pedrolino, a mischievous, intriguing buffoon, Pagliaccio, a madcap who wore a painted hat of white wool and a garment of white linen, whose face was covered with flour, and who wore a white mask, have both been cited as types that may have contributed to the figure of Pierrot, whose name makes its first appearance in Moliere's play, _Don Juan ou le Festin de Pierre_. Not that this dull servant of Moliere's is in any sense the counterpart of the Pierrot of our day who is by turns languishing or vivacious, impish or poetic, but never doltish. From the seventeenth century, Pierrot, his costume borrowed from the Neapolitan mask, Pulcinella, became more and more prominent on both the Italian and the French stage. It was a certain French pantomime actor by the name of Deburau who died a few years before the middle of the nineteenth century, who gave Pierrot the prominence that he enjoys to-day and who dressed the character in the guise that he most often assumes on the modern stage. "The short woolen tunic, with its great buttons and its narrow sleeves, that overhung the hands, soon became an ample calico blouse with wide long sleeves like those of the Italian Pagliaccio. He suppressed the collar, which cast an upward shadow from the footlights on to his face, and interfered with the play of his countenance, and instead of the white skull-cap of his predecessor, he emphasized the pallor of his face by framing it in a cap of black velvet."[29] The Pierrot of our fancy[30] comes to us also through the pictures of Watteau and Pater and the designs of Aubrey Beardsley.

[Footnote 29: Maurice Sand, _The History of the Harlequinade_, London, 1915, Vol. I, p. 219.]

[Footnote 30: _Mon Ami Pierrot._ _Songs and Fantasies_, compiled by Kendall Banning, Chicago, 1917. This book presents the Pierrot of modern poetry and drama.]

A one-act farce, _The Quod Wrangle_, is the only other published play of Oliphant Down's. Its plot, as outlined in _The London Times_ of March 4, 1914, reminds one strongly of O. Henry's _The Cop and the Anthem_.

THE MAKER OF DREAMS

CHARACTERS

PIERROT. PIERRETTE. THE MANUFACTURER.

_Evening. A room in an old cottage, with walls of dark oak, lit only by the moonlight that peers through the long, low casement-window at the back, and the glow from the fire that is burning merrily on the spectator's left. A cobbled street can be seen outside, and a door to the right of the window opens directly on to it. Opposite the fire is a kitchen dresser with cups and plates twinkling in the firelight. A high-backed oak settle, as though afraid of the cold moonlight, has turned its back on the window and warms its old timbers at the fire. In the middle of the room stands a table with a red cover; there are chairs on either side of it. On the hob, a kettle is keeping itself warm; whilst overhead, on the hood of the chimney-piece, a small lamp is turned very low._

_A figure flits past the window and, with a click of the latch, PIERRETTE enters. She hangs up her cloak by the door, gives a little shiver and runs to warm herself for a moment. Then, having turned up the lamp, she places the kettle on the fire. Crossing the room, she takes a tablecloth from the dresser and proceeds to lay tea, setting out crockery for two. Once she goes to the window and, drawing aside the common red casement-curtains, looks out, but returns to her work, disappointed. She puts a spoonful of tea into the teapot, and another, and a third. Something outside attracts her attention; she listens, her face brightening. A voice is heard singing:_

"Baby, don't wait for the moon, She is caught in a tangle of boughs; And mellow and musical June Is saying 'Good-night' to the cows."

[_The voice draws nearer and a conical white hat goes past the window. PIERROT enters._]

PIERROT [_throwing his hat to PIERRETTE_]. Ugh! How cold it is. My feet are like ice.

PIERRETTE. Here are your slippers. I put them down to warm. [_She kneels beside him, as he sits before the fire and commences to slip off his shoes._]

PIERROT [_singing:_]

"Baby, don't wait for the moon, She will put out her tongue and grimace; And mellow and musical June Is pinning the stars in their place."

Isn't tea ready yet?

PIERRETTE. Nearly. Only waiting for the kettle to boil.

PIERROT. How cold it was in the market-place to-day! I don't believe I sang at all well. I can't sing in the cold.

PIERRETTE. Ah, you're like the kettle. He can't sing when he's cold either. Hurry up, Mr. Kettle, if you please.

PIERROT. I wish it were in love with the sound of its own voice.

PIERRETTE. I believe it is. Now it's singing like a bird. We'll make the tea with the nightingale's tongue. [_She pours the boiling water into the teapot._] Come along.

PIERROT [_looking into the fire_]. I wonder. She had beauty, she had form, but had she soul?

PIERRETTE [_cutting bread and butter at the table_]. Come and be cheerful, instead of grumbling there to the fire.

PIERROT. I was thinking.

PIERRETTE. Come and have tea. When you sit by the fire, thoughts only fly up the chimney.

PIERROT. The whole world's a chimney-piece. Give people a thing as worthless as paper, and it catches fire in them and makes a stir; but real thought, they let it go up with the smoke.

PIERRETTE. Cheer up, Pierrot. See how thick I've spread the butter.

PIERROT. You're always cheerful.

PIERRETTE. I try to be happy.

PIERROT. Ugh! [_He has moved to the table. There is a short silence, during which PIERROT sips his tea moodily._]

PIERRETTE. Tea all right?

PIERROT. Middling.

PIERRETTE. Only middling! I'll pour you out some fresh.

PIERROT. Oh, it's all right! How you do worry a fellow!

PIERRETTE. Heigh-ho! Shall I chain up that big black dog?

PIERROT. I say, did you see that girl to-day?

PIERRETTE. Whereabouts?

PIERROT. Standing by the horse-trough. With a fine air, and a string of great beads.

PIERRETTE. I didn't see her.

PIERROT. I did, though. And she saw me. Watched me all the time I was singing, and clapped her hands like anything each time. I wonder if it is possible for a woman to have a soul as well as such beautiful coloring.

PIERRETTE. She was made up!

PIERROT. I'm sure she was not. And how do you know? You didn't see her.

PIERRETTE. Perhaps I _did_ see her.

PIERROT. Now, look here, Pierrette, it's no good your being jealous. When you and I took on this show business, we arranged to be just partners and nothing more. If I see anyone I want to marry, I shall marry 'em. And if you see anyone who wants to marry you, _you_ can marry 'em.

PIERRETTE. I'm not jealous! It's absurd!

PIERROT [_singing abstractedly_].

"Baby, don't wait for the moon, She has scratched her white chin on the gorse; And mellow and musical June Is bringing the cuckoo remorse."

PIERRETTE. Did you see that girl after the show?

PIERROT. No. She had slipped away in the crowd. Here, I've had enough tea. I shall go out and try to find her.

PIERRETTE. Why don't you stay in by the fire? You could help me to darn the socks.

PIERROT. Don't try to chaff me. Darning, indeed! I hope life has got something better in it than darning.

PIERRETTE. I doubt it. It's pretty much the same all the world over. First we wear holes in our socks, and then we mend them. The wise ones are those who make the best of it, and darn as well as they can.

PIERROT. I say, that gives me an idea for a song.

PIERRETTE. Out with it, then.

PIERROT. Well, I haven't exactly formed it yet. This is what flashed through my mind as you spoke: [_He runs up on to the table, using it as a stage._]

"Life's a ball of worsted, Unwind it if you can, You who oft have boasted

[_He pauses for a moment, then hurriedly, in order to gloss over the false accenting._]

That you are a man."

Of course that's only a rough idea.

PIERRETTE. Are you going to sing it at the show?

PIERROT [_jumping down from the table_]. You're always so lukewarm. A man of artistic ideas is as sensitively skinned as a baby.

PIERRETTE. Do stay in, Pierrot. It's so cold outside.

PIERROT. You want me to listen to you grumbling, I suppose.

PIERRETTE. Just now you said I was always cheerful.

PIERROT. There you are; girding at me again.

PIERRETTE. I'm sorry, Pierrot. But the market-place is dreadfully wet, and your shoes are awfully thin.

PIERROT. I tell you I will not stop in. I'm going out to find that girl. How do I know she isn't the very woman of my dreams?

PIERRETTE. Why are you always trying to picture an ideal woman?

PIERROT. Don't _you ever_ picture an ideal man?

PIERRETTE. No, I try to be practical.

PIERROT. Women are so unimaginative! They are such pathetic, motherly things, and when they feel extra motherly they say, "I'm in love." All that is so sordid and petty. I want a woman I can set on a pedestal, and just look up at her and love her.

PIERRETTE [_speaking very fervently_].

"Pierrot, don't wait for the moon, There's a heart chilling cold in her rays; And mellow and musical June Will only last thirty short days."

PIERROT. Oh, I should never make you understand! Well, I'm off. [_As he goes out, he sings, sidelong, over his shoulder in a mocking tone, "Baby, don't wait for the moon." PIERRETTE listens for a moment to his voice dying away in the distance. Then she moves to the fire-place, and begins to stir the fire. As she kneels there, the words of an old recitation form on her lips. Half unconsciously she recites it again to an audience of laughing flames and glowing, thoughtful coals._]

"There lives a maid in the big, wide world, By the crowded town and mart, And people sigh as they pass her by; They call her Hungry Heart.

For there trembles that on her red rose lip That never her tongue can say, And her eyes are sad, and she is not glad In the beautiful calm of day.

Deep down in the waters of pure, clear thought, The mate of her fancy lies; Sleeping, the night is made fair by his light Sweet kiss on her dreaming eyes.

Though a man was made in the wells of time Who could set her soul on fire, Her life unwinds, and she never finds This love of her heart's desire.

If you meet this maid of a hopeless love, Play not a meddler's part. Silence were best; let her keep in her breast The dream of her hungry heart."

[_Overcome by tears, she hides her face in her hands. A slow, treble knock comes on the door; PIERRETTE looks up wonderingly. Again the knock sounds._]