The Project Gutenberg eBook of Picture plays
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Title: Picture plays
Author: Marguerite Merington
Release date: July 14, 2026 [eBook #79091]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Duffield and Company, 1911
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79091
Credits: Charlene Taylor, Shawn Carraher and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PICTURE PLAYS ***
PICTURE PLAYS
UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME
“+Cranford: A Play.+” By Marguerite Merington. A comedy in three acts
made from Mrs. Gaskell’s famous novel. With a cover design and a
frontispiece by Edwin Wallick. Cloth, 12mo, $1.25.
“+The Vicar of Wakefield: A Play.+” In five acts, founded on
Goldsmith’s novel. Cover inlay and frontispiece in colors by John
Rae. $1.25 net.
“+Holiday Plays+”: Five one-act pieces for Thanksgiving Day,
Washington’s Birthday, Fourth of July, Lincoln’s Birthday and
Memorial Day. Cover inlay and frontispiece by John Rae. $1.25 net.
“+Pride and Prejudice: A Play.+” By Mrs. Steele MacKaye. A comedy in
four acts, founded on Jane Austen’s novel. With frontispiece in
color by Edwin Wallick. Cloth, 12mo, $1.25.
[Illustration]
PICTURE PLAYS
BY
MARGUERITE MERINGTON
Author of “Cranfeld: a Play,” “The Vicar of Wakefield: a
Play,” “Holiday Plays,” etc., etc.
[Illustration: FIDE ET LITERIS]
NEW YORK
DUFFIELD AND COMPANY
1911
+Copyright, 1911, by+
DUFFIELD AND COMPANY
* *
_All rights reserved_
CONTENTS
PAGE
+The Last Sitting+ 9
_Picture_, +Mona Lisa+, _by Da Vinci_.
+A Salon Carré Fantasy+ 19
_Picture_, +The Man With a Glove+, _by Titian_.
+His Mother’s Face+ 75
_Picture_, +Une Fête Champêtre+, _by Watteau_.
+A Gainsborough Lady+ 83
_Picture_, +The Duchess of Devonshire+, _by
Gainsborough_.
+Artist-Mother and Child+ 91
_Picture_, +Mme. Vigée Lebrun and her Daughter+, _by Mme.
Vigée Lebrun_.
+Queen and Emperor+ 97
_Picture_, +Queen Louisa+, _by Richter_.
+Millet Group+ 119
_Picture_, +The Angelus+, _by Millet_.
_In the stage directions right and left are used from the standpoint of
the actor, facing the audience._
* *
_A fee is charged for the use of any or all of these plays. Application
should be made to Duffield & Company, 36 West 37th street, New York._
THE LAST SITTING
* *
_Picture, Mona Lisa, by Da Vinci_
THE LAST SITTING
+Characters+: +Da Vinci+ _the artist and his sitter_ +Mona Lisa+.
_The scene presents a section of the artist’s studio in Florence
in the first years of the sixteenth century. At the back,
which is open, one sees a balcony, and beyond this the sky of
late afternoon, gradually fading to a mellow twilight. Plants,
flowers, statues, give the place a festive air. In the centre
is a plain, dark screen, in which has been cut a frame-like
opening. Behind this sits_ +Mona Lisa+, _a young woman in the
early twenties, in the picture-attitude. Well down to one side,
at his easel, is_ +Da Vinci+, _a handsome man between forty and
fifty, in rose-colored coat, and black cap from beneath which
flow his dark curling locks, absorbed in his work. Before the
curtains part, and for a minute or so after, men’s voices to the
accompaniment of a lute are heard singing_:
_From a country far I came.
Strange the hap!
Ask not its name,
Place on the map!_
_But my heart beyond the sea
Knew your welcome waited me!_
_Such a little while--
Tear, song, and sigh,
Twilight and a woman’s smile,
You and I!_
+Mona Lisa.+
[_As the song ends, with a sigh of rapture._]
O strain divine! Ferarra’s music set
With lyric words befitting!
What means it all? Twin spirits met
Only to part, parting to meet again ...
Like yonder crystal globes that play
At hide-and-seek beneath the fountain’s spray;
[_Pointing to one side where a fountain is supposed to be._]
As pain mocks pleasure, sunbeams conquer rain!
Master!
[_With sudden contrition._]
I spoil the sitting!
A thousand pardons. I’ll keep still.
+Da Vinci.+
Not so, Madonna. Speak and move at will,
The background while I sketch.
+Mona Lisa.+
[_Rising, comes from behind the screen._]
Background, in sooth!
[_Leaning on the balcony, she looks over, then turns to him._]
Below, a tempting parquet,
Lies Florence, jewel-bright with youth,
And all the singing pageantry of life!
From which I fain must turn to face
In fancy, what?
[_Indicating the front, as if it were a wall on which her dreams
were visualized during her sittings._]
+Da Vinci.+
Your home.
+Mona Lisa.+
Sole resting place
For fancy?
+Da Vinci.+
[_With conviction._]
Aye, Madonna, when a wife....
Unless ’twere mass or market!
+Mona Lisa.+
[_With a half-smile and a half-sigh, going to a mirror and
contemplating her reflection._]
Poor Mona Lisa! Such reply
Might give Giocondo ... he whose third am I!
[_After a slight pause she approaches_ +Da Vinci+, _who is busily
at work._]
Ser Leonardo, is, as men aver,
Art so to you a cloister
No woman boasts your love for her?
+Da Vinci.+
[_Smiles, and pauses a minute before answering._]
Once on a time, a crab, all craft and claw,
Wooed shellfish with crustacean wile.
Then, through the flattered fool’s wide-open smile,
Plucked out its heart! The moral, pray you, draw!
+Mona Lisa.+
[_Laughs, but slightly ruefully._]
Crab I; you no such oyster!
[_Da Vinci nods a smiling assent. Again she speaks, but this time
seriously._]
Is art love’s foe, then?
+Da Vinci.+
[_With a gesture renouncing the issue._]
Who can tell
If spark shall kindle altar-flame, or hell?
[_The lady nods, as if to say, “I see your point-of-view, though
without binding myself to share it!” and moves about the room,
occupying herself with the flowers. Going behind the artist,
she showers a handful of petals over him. Looking up_, +Da
Vinci+ _invites her attention to his work._]
+Mona Lisa.+
[_Exclaims, and claps her hands delightedly._]
’Tis wondrous strange: when to be painted, first
My good Giocondo brought me,
Strained glance and formal mien rehearsed,
Prim folded hands ... like this!
[_Illustrating._]
Self-conscious smirk
As one who from her frame cries, “See!
“The great Da Vinci’s self hath painted me!”
I deemed my sitter’s tribute to your work!
But these four years have taught me...!
+Da Vinci.+
[_Completing her thought._]
From fragment mood one gleans the whole;
Portrays, less hand, eye, smiling lip, than soul!
+Mona Lisa.+
[_Reflecting on this, speaks with some bitterness._]
The soul! A human soul! Poor wanton thing!
Sport of your beck and bribing!
Thus wide its prison-doors you fling
For thrush, caged swallow, ransomed from the mart ...
Through pity of its lonely note?
Ah, no! Cold-blood, by rule to test, and rote,
Dipped wing and balanced muscle for your Art!
[_She moves away._]
+Da Vinci.+
[_Has uttered a protesting “Oh, oh!” He now explains._]
That’s Buonarotti’s gibing!
+Mona Lisa.+
[_Earnestly; completing her analogy._]
Master, to bird or soul such flight
Spells--
+Da Vinci.+
Freedom!
+Mona Lisa.+
[_Shakes her head mournfully._]
Song-void days, and mateless night!
+Da Vinci.+
[_After a slight pause, picks up his brush again._]
Come; sit, Madonna, for the last time!
+Mona Lisa.+
[_Turns on him with a startled exclamation, then forces herself
to speak calmly._]
Done,
My portrait, then?
+Da Vinci.+
[_Bows affirmatively._]
The features.
Poised, Sphinx-wise, twixt coquette and nun,
Ever your smile eludes....
+Mona Lisa.+
Painter, or man?
+Da Vinci.+
[_Shrugs shoulders._]
Ask Time, artist whose master-skill
Puts the transcending touch! Unfinished, still
Divine, so bides my Christ-face at Milan!
+Mona Lisa.+
And I, least of His creatures,
Bide ... how?
+Da Vinci.+
Divine, grace of Art’s brush,
Or.... Choose! Woman by love revealed!
[_Throwing aside his brush, he strides a step or so toward her,
then stands with extended arms, awaiting her choice._]
+Mona Lisa.+
[_Exclaims, shocked at the crisis she herself has invited._]
Oh! Hush!
[_Picking up the artist’s brush, she puts it into his hand,
then quietly resumes her place behind the screen._ +Da Vinci+
_bows, resigning himself to her decision, and goes back to his
place, first, with a wave of his hand, giving a signal to the
musicians, who would seem to be in a gallery to one side, but
unseen by the spectator. Again the music sounds, men’s voices
accompanied by the lute, very softly and finally dying away._
+Mona Lisa+ _glances now and then wistfully at_ +Da Vinci+,
_but he soon becomes wholly engrossed with his work, as if no
emotional passage between them had occurred. At last, with a
slight sigh of final renunciation, she composes her features
to her inscrutable half-smile as she gazes steadfastly on an
imaginary world. And so are the curtains drawn upon the scene._]
_To my country far I wend
Home my way,
While shadows blend
Darkness with day._
_Throat of thrush and swallow’s wing
Tidings of me still may bring!_
_Oh, such short-lived bliss:
Tear, song, and sigh,
Starlight, and a lover’s kiss.
Then, Good-bye!_
A SALON CARRÉ FANTASY
* *
_Picture, The Young Man with a Glove. L’Homme au Gant by Titian
(Tiziano Vecelli, 1477-1578)._
[Illustration]
A SALON CARRÉ FANTASY
+Characters+: _Pictures, The_ +Young Man with a Glove+ _... L’Homme
au Gant_, +The Woman at her Toilet+, _supposed to be Laura
Dianti. Other masterpieces, but unseen._
+Human Beings+: _The_ +Glove Young Man+; +Laura+, _an Art-student;
Visitors to the galleries of the Louvre, including a_ +Husband+
_and_ +Wife+, _an_ +Elderly Party+ _from the country with her
niece, a_ +Teacher and her Class+, _and a rhapsodic_ +German
Lady+; _a_ +Gardien+ _of the Louvre galleries._
+Time+: _The present._
+Scene+: _The spot in the Salon Carré of the Louvre where hangs
Titian’s picture, L’Homme au Gant. In front of the railing which
guards the walls is room for persons to pass. At one side is the
regulation velvet-covered bench. On the other, at her easel,
sits_ +Laura+, _making a copy of the picture._
[_As the curtains part, the_ +Husband+ _and_ +Wife+ _enter from the
right._]
+The Husband.+
[_With catalogue, announces with authority._]
Fifteen-ninety-two is L’Homme au Gant.
Ha! French!
+The Wife.+
[_Looking over his shoulder timidly corrects._]
Venetian.
+The Husband.+
L’Homme is French for man.
Gant, glove.
+The Wife.+
Titian. Venetian School. Just look!
+The Husband.+
’Tis not the question where he went to school.
L’Homme stamps him French.
+The Wife.+
[_Timidly venturing a joke._]
Perhaps his gloves are French.
+The Husband.+
[_Determined to find fault._]
Gant, glove, is singular. It should be called
A Man with Pair of Gloves. I shall report
The matter! Come!
[_They pass to the left._]
+Laura.+
Oh, dear! Such people make
Me weary!
+German Lady.+
[_Enters from the left. Speaks rapturously._]
Ach, du lieber ... wunderschön!
[_Some_ +French Visitors+, _entering, accidentally jostle the_
+German Lady+. _Apologies are exchanged in their respective
tongues._]
+One French Visitor.+
[_Looking at the picture._]
Superbe! Magnifique!
+Another French Visitor.+
Pas grande chose!
[_They pass on._]
[_The_ +Elderly Party+ _and_ +Young Woman+ _enter, right._]
+Elderly Party.+
Who’s this young feller?
+German Lady.+
Wunder-wunder-wunderschön!
+Elderly Party.+
[_Consulting catalogue._]
St. George
And Dragon! He’s some dressy for a saint!
And, ef they haven’t left the dragon out!
I allus had a notion I should like
To see one!
+Young Woman.+
[_Beckoning on the left._]
Auntie! Over here!
+Elderly Party.+
[_Joining the_ +Young Woman.+ _Scrutinizes an unseen
masterpiece._]
Do tell!
Is that a dragon? Mercy, ain’t he plain!
+Laura.+
Cattle! Why don’t they stay in home-pastures!
Not come and trample down Elysian fields!
[_Notices_ +German Lady+ _still enraptured._]
Well, on my word, does she intend to spend
The whole day, wunderschöning here? I beg
Your pardon!
+German Lady.+
Fräulein?
+Laura.+
You are not, as you
May think, transparent!
+German Lady.+
[_Apologetically, moving away._]
Fräulein!
+Laura.+
Thanks. The Louvre
Contains some other works of interest!...
The creature acts as if she thought she owned
This portrait!
[_Jealously._]
+Young Man with Glove.+
[_Slightly bored._]
Oh, ta, ta!
+Laura.+
[_Agitated._]
What’s that!
It seemed to move, to say--
+Young Man with Glove.+
Oh, ta, ta, ta!
[_Unable to believe the evidence of her senses_, +Laura+ _resumes
work._ +Teacher and Class+ _enter from the left._]
+Teacher.+
[_Dictating from Baedeker._]
Giorgione’s work.
Take notes. “A Rustic Festival.”
+Class.+
[_Mechanically, taking notes._]
Giorgione, Rustic Festival.
+Teacher.+
[_Dictating._]
Remark the depth and warmth of coloring,
Rich treatment of the landscape!
+Youngest Pupil.+
[_Looking at the picture._]
I don’t see
The landscape!
+Teacher.+
Well, it’s here!
[_Indicating Baedeker, then glances up at picture._]
Oh, wait a bit!
[_Turns over leaves, finding place._]
The After-Dinner Concert.... Magdalen
With Ointment.... Here we are. Young Man in
Black with Glove.
+Some of the Class.+
[_Mechanically, taking notes._]
Young Man in Black Glove.
+Others.+
Black Young Man in Glove!
+The Oldest Pupil.+
What must we say
Of this?
+Teacher.+
[_Dictating._]
“An admirable portrait....”
+Class+
An admirable portrait.
+Youngest Pupil.+
Please. Portrait
Of whom?
+Oldest Pupil.+
[_Glancing up at picture._]
Why, Portrait of a Man!
+Class.+
[_Glancing up at picture._]
Of course!
+Teacher.+
[_Consulting Baedeker._]
No, no. “An admirable portrait of
His Middle Period.”
+Class.+
[_Writing._]
His Middle Period.
+Oldest Pupil.+
How much must we admire this: _very_ much?
+Teacher.+
Marked with but one star, no; not _very_ much.
In the Salon Carré, admire, of course.
One star, more admiration than for those
Without one. But unstinted raptures keep
For double-stars. For instance, this one, here....
[_Leading to the right._]
St. Catharine--Correggio. All take notes.
Of which Vasari says--
+Youngest Pupil.+
[_Lingering._]
We don’t have time
To see the pictures!
+Teacher.+
[_Wearily._]
How can I help that?
An hour is all we have to do the Louvre!
“Of which Vasari says....” Take notes!
+Laura.+
Barbarians! Of all
The hordes, nose-glued to Baedekers, that pass,
Scarce one is worthy to lift eyes to thee,
O masterpiece of masterpieces!
+Young Man with Glove.+
Oh, ta, ta!
+Laura.+
Good Heavens, there it goes again ... ta, ta!
Absurd. I’m dreaming. Eyesight overtaxed,
Nerves play me false. To work again. Right hand
A patch of light, significant that seems
To follow whither eyes direct, those eyes
Alive with challenge, charm! His gracile ease,
As on the parapet he leans, denotes
No haste. We catch him unawares. Near by
Some interlocutor--by which I mean,
God help me!--interlocutress, for whom
He feels a more than common interest!
Oh, for a miracle. Would that those lips
Might break the seal of centuries for me
To learn his secret!
+Young Man with Glove.+
Oh, ta, ta!
+Laura.+
He lives,
Moves, speaks! It is too much to bear! Help! Help!
[_Runs off, left, crying for help._]
+Gardien.+
[_Hurrying on from the right._]
Au secours! Au secours!
[_Seeing nothing demanding his services, he dusts the bench with
his handkerchief._]
+The Husband.+
[_Entering from the left._]
Do come!
+The Wife.+
[_Following, looking back, to the left._]
But that poor girl in trouble!
+The Husband.+
[_Taking his wife’s arm and steering her, right._]
Well,
Don’t look! Don’t meddle with.... How dare you, sir!
[_Bumping into_ +Gardien+ _who is going to the left._]
+Gardien.+
M’sieur! Mille pardons!
+The Husband.+
Certainly not. You ought to be discharged!
[_Going to the right, sees a picture further on, exclaims._]
Bless my soul!
That red-head hussy yonder, doing up
Her hair, while someone, obviously a man,
Holds up two looking-glasses! Shameless thing!
[_Putting up eyeglass to get a better view._]
+The Wife.+
Oh, exquisite! A Titian!
+The Husband.+
A disgrace!
If this is what art’s coming to--!
+The Wife.+
My dear,
That’s an Old Master!
+The Husband.+
Old enough to know
Much better. I shall write a letter to
The Times about it!
[_Exclaims, as the_ +Young Man with Glove+, _leaning forward,
knocks his hat over one eye._]
What a draught! But where
Can it be coming from!
[_Again exclaims, as the_ +Young Man+ _knocks his hat which he
just has righted, over the other eye._]
And where can it
Be going to! I shall report it! Come!
[_He goes to the right, the wife following._]
+Young Man with Glove.+
[_Laughing, emerges from his frame, vaulting neatly over the
railing._]
A neat revenge; eh, compari?
+Unseen Pictures.+
Bravo!
Bravissimo!
+The Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Enters from the right, gathering some rich drapery about
herself._]
Red-head, indeed, and hussy! I can’t wait
Till closing time, Signore, to express
My warmest gratitude.... I fain would say
My heartfelt, had I but a heart; for this
Your gallant championship!
[_Curtseying._]
+Young Man with Glove.+
[_Bowing low._]
With pleasure duty lies in your behalf.
Madonna ... Laura Dianti, I believe?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
A point on which historians divide!
The name suits me as well as any! You,
Signore, were baptized--?
+Young Man with Glove.+
In oils alone!
Unsired, came I into this picture-world!
No human mother bore me that I knew!
Even as you I sprang from hand and brain
Of the Vecelli! But what man he used
As manikin to fit my features on,
Have I forgotten, if I ever knew!
As for a name, oft I amuse myself
By filching one from passers-by! To-day
Carlo of the Neroni seems to ring
Not unbecomingly. What think you?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Fine!
From whom derived?
+Young Man with Glove.+
A letter that I found
Beside this easel. Charley Black, ’tis signed.
Which I translated.... But why do we stand?
My frame why not enter with me awhile?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Hesitating._]
I fear ’twould cause remark!
+Unseen Pictures.+
[_On the left, warning._]
Look out!
[_The_ +Woman at her Toilet+ _runs away, right._]
+Young Man with Glove.+
[_Looking toward the left._]
We’re safe. ’Tis only the custodian
Of our security!...
[_Leans against wall while_ +Gardien+ _passes across, left to
right._]
St. George, come down
From your high horse and fence!
+St. George.+
[_Unseen._]
Sorry,
Dear boy, but there’s a fine for breaking ranks
In exhibition hours!
[_Murmurs of assent from other unseen pictures._]
+Young Man with Glove.+
Oh, very well!
I’ll take a turn among the Later Dutch,
Or through the Spanish School!
[_Cries of “Stop him! Stop him!”_]
What can I do?
If I play here you all complain that I
Disturb the Holy Families!
+Unseen Pictures.+
[_In succession._]
You do!
+Young Man with Glove.+
[_Whimsically, keeping count._]
See, now! Murillo’s; Rembrandt’s; Raphael’s,
And all the rest!
+St. George.+
At times, dear boy, you act
Just like a silly human being!
+Young Man with Glove.+
[_Protesting._]
Oh,
St. George!
+Several Unseen Pictures.+
’Tis true!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Coming again toward the_ +Young Man+.]
Signore, neighbor, friend,
And, strongest bond, co-Titian. Have a care.
I speak for all in saying that, of all,
Are you the highest note, last cry in art
That’s personal!
+Young Man with Glove.+
[_Striving to be modest about it._]
So commentators say!
And who am I that should contradict!
+A Gruff Voice.+
[_On the left._]
’Tis naught so much to brag of, my young blade!
+Young Man with Glove.+
[_Looking in the direction of the Voice._]
Indeed, Poussin’s Diogenes.... It was
Poussin’s Diogenes, I think, that spoke?
+Deep, Solemn Voice.+
You talk too much for the Salon Carré!
You should be hung among the Moderns!
[_Others murmur, as if this were too severe._]
+Young Man with Glove.+
Oh,
St. Michael! Though you are a Raphael
Touched up a bit, indeed, ’tis said, by--
[_Loud cries of “Order! Order!”_]
+St. George.+
Invidious reference to pedigrees
Is barred!
[_Loud cries of “Hear, Hear!”_]
+Young Man with Glove.+
True. Still I think he should withdraw
The slur of modernism!
+St. Michael.+
I refuse
To enter talking-lists! Sublimest art
Is ever silent! I have spoken!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Hush!
Provoke him not! Remember, he’s a Saint!
+Young Man with Glove.+
[_Laughing, gracefully yields the point._]
Heaven be thanked, I’m secular! One gets
So much more harmless pleasure out of art!
But, to our muttons. You were saying, what?
Something about my Middle Period!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Sir, long ago it was constated, you
Express most fully life-in-art to life
That speaks in terms of life, not terms of art!
[_Cries of “Hear, hear!”_]
+St. George.+
That hits the nail where rarely nail is hit
By womenkind!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
My thanks, St. George! ’Tis not
My own, though!... Then, I’m just a bit that way
Myself!
[_General laughter._]
[_To the_ +Young Man+.]
Sublimest heights you may not scale....
+St. Michael.+
No; not by many a league!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
I quite admit
My single-starred estate!
[_General laughter._]
I would not brag,
By that same token, though, am I not, well,
More popular than others I could name
In this collection?
+St. Michael.+
I don’t understand
A word he says what time he tries to talk
St. George’s English.
+St. George.+
Oh, not mine! Echoes
Of text-book, tourist jargon, student slang!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Drawing the_ +Young Man+ _forward._]
Listen. I fear not, as our neighbors do,
Your frolic humor, lifelike charm, may bring
Our cinquecento into disrepute.
’Tis for yourself I plead!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
[_Puzzled._]
You plead for me,
Madonna?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Aye. And for another!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Who...?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
A woman!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Dio mio! Dare I hope...?
[_Advancing toward her._]
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Retreating._]
Ah, no, no, no! Misread me not! Oh, who
Are you and I to play at life and love--
To breathe, even, of mysteries that lie
Our shadow-world of canvas, paint, beyond?
+Young Man with a Glove.+
[_Musingly._]
And yet, if only dimly sensed, why not?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Always with increasing feeling._]
O fateful power, poised in bold relief
Against your dusky background, so to seem
Alert into a world of flesh and blood
To spring!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
[_With growing life-quality._]
Yet, for one human hour, why not!
Come, let us forth into the sunlit groves,
Where birds are singing, you and I?
[_Holding arms out toward her._]
+Woman at her Toilet.+
For you
It would be death!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
With you, why not?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Alas!
Ser Tiziano in another mood
Contrived me! You clean-cut may break away,
Our prison roam at will!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
[_Laughing._]
A fiction! Hark:
Outposts of Renaissance I cannot pass!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
But I only a few steps may achieve.
And, see! the damask how I tear away!
[_Drawing drapery closer about herself._]
+Young Man with a Glove.+
My strength shall draw you, draw you, draw,
All barriers across!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Almost yielding._]
We should be missed!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
What then? “Another scandal in the Louvre!
Two masterpieces missing, raped, no doubt,
By some trans-ocean plutocrat!” While hand
In hand we fare to Italy!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Looking toward the right._]
Oh! The patrol!
[_The two duck behind the bench as the_ +Gardien+ _passes
through, right to left, then rise._]
[_Just then the_ +German Lady+ _enters from the right._]
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Heavens! Here comes the Wunderschöner! Hide!
[_They duck again._]
+German Lady.+
[_Begins, rapturously._]
Ach, wunder....
[_Breaks off, rubs eyes, staring at frame._]
[+Teacher+ _and_ +Class+ _enter from the right, the_ +Youngest
Pupil+ _leading._]
+Youngest Pupil.+
Please, I want another look
At the Young Man with.... Why, he isn’t there!
+Teacher.+
Nonsense! Of course he’s there!
+Class.+
[_Echoing._]
Of course he’s there!
+Youngest Pupil.+
But, look!
+Teacher.+
He must be there! It says so here! In Baedeker!
+German Lady.+
[_Loyally, going to the left._]
Ach, Wunderschön!
+Teacher.+
[_Leading the way back, right._]
Come, come!
+Youngest Pupil.+
[_Lingering, unconvinced._]
He must have just stepped out!
[_The_ +Young Man+ _and the_ +Woman+ _rise from their
hiding-place._]
+Young Man with a Glove.+
So few there are
To whom we bear a real message.... Come!
In native Italy fullness of life
Awaits us! Oh, once more to be where first
We saw the light!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
The light saw us, you mean!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
One time were man and woman we, altho
Till now have I denied it, knew it not!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Ah, no, no, no!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Already feel you not
A quickening? A something here?
[_Hand on heart._]
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Puts up hands as if to ward off danger._]
Ah, no!
Have pity!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Come ... to life! Come back to life,
I should have said!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Heaven, be merciful!
For us there is no life--there never was!
What man and woman sat for us, long since
Are dust, their souls with God!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Then what are we?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Poor simulacra only, that reveal,
By grace of art, life to the living, yet
Have none ourselves. Half-lengths--’Tis all we are!--
Below the frame-line we are just inferred--
As Titian would have rendered us, as ’twere,
From waist to toe!--By lifelikeness beguiled,
If life’s forbidden fruit to taste we seek,
We perish!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Then, what woman meant you now?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Poor fool adoringly long hours who spends
Before you at her easel!
[_Pointing to_ +Laura’s+ _copy._]
+Young Man with a Glove.+
[_Laughs._]
Oh, ta, ta!
[_Examines copy._]
Ye shades of Titian, what a travesty!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
E’en as the call of life to you and me
To be forever blotted out would mean,
One step across the line, her world from ours
Dividing, for that girl spells madness!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
[_Shocked at the idea._]
Oh!
Though mortals rank a race inferior
To art-creations--
+Woman at her Toilet.+
I should say so!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Still,
Their suffrage ’tis on us confers our claim
To immortality! Sooner than harm
A hair on silly head of one, then, I
Could wish myself a landscape, seapiece, aye,
Truncated cherub, even! anything
But what I am!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Applauding._]
Oh, worthy of our School!
[_Voices are heard on the left._]
But, hark! Quick! Quick! Back to our frames!
[_The two hurriedly return to their places, the_ +Woman+ _going
to the right, the_ +Young Man+ _getting into his frame._]
[_The_ +Glove Young Man+ _enters from the right._]
+Glove Young Man.+
Laura! Hey, Laura!... Why, they said I sure
Should find her here! I must have lost my way
Again.
[+Gardien+ _passes through from left to right._]
Conductor!
+Gardien.+
Eh, m’sieur?
+Glove Young Man.+
Is this Saloon carre?
[_Mispronouncing._]
+Gardien.+
[_Enquiringly._]
M’sieur?
+Glove Young Man.+
Or words
To that effect?
+Gardien.+
[_Shrugs shoulders, deprecating inability to understand._]
M’sieur!
[_Passes on._]
+Glove Young Man.+
I give it up!
[_Sits, pushes hat on back of head, consults guide-book._]
+The Husband.+
[_Entering from the right, followed by the wife._]
We’ll cut the rest. We’ve seen
Enough to say we’ve seen them! And go get
A cup of tea, if decent tea is found
In Paris!
+The Wife.+
I should like a bun, if one
Can find one!
+The Husband.+
[_Dogmatically._]
Bun is a French word.
I’ve heard it frequently!
+The Wife.+
But bun in French
Does not mean English bun!
+The Husband.+
[_With finality._]
In English, French,--
In any language bun means bun! What else
Could bun mean, except bun--just bun!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Closes guide-book, rising._]
Since English doesn’t work
I’ll try my French! Ahem! Pardon, monsieur!
Comprenez-vous anglais?
[_Speaking laboriously._]
+The Husband.+
Certainly not!
How dare you ask me! Come!
[_Leads wife away, to the left._]
+Glove Young Man.+
I give it up!
[_Sinks back on bench._]
+Elderly Party.+
[_Entering from the left with_ +Young Woman+.]
They’re very fine,
No doubt, but give me cheerful art, like Pigs
In Clover, Dancing in a Barn. Or things
That make you cry. Last Days of Pompeii!
Pictures of common things, home-folks you know!
That’s my style!
+Young Woman.+
[_Protesting._]
Auntie! Shocking! This is ART!
+Glove Young Man.+
Guess I’ll try my French on this bunch!... Hem!
Parlez-vous Français, s’il vous plaît, Madame?
+Young Woman.+
[_Explaining to the_ +Elderly Party+ _in undertone._]
I think he’s asking you in French if you
Speak French!
+Elderly Party.+
[_Flustered, asks_ +Young Woman+.]
Do I speak French or do I not?
And how in French shall I tell him if I
Speak French or not?
+Young Woman.+
Leave him to me!
[_Gets out conversation manual._]
“Non, ma chere marraine, le soldat n’as pas avalé le tisonier, mais la
femme du boulanger a un petit chien chinois.”
[_Slowly, reading._]
+Glove Young Man.+
Fine day, indeed, as you remark!... I give it up!
[_He is about to go, when the_ +Elderly Party+ _recognizes him._]
+Elderly Party.+
Ef it ain’t Charley Black!
+Young Woman.+
Why, so it is!
Why, Charley!
+Glove Young Man.+
Mrs. Johnson! Mandy! This
Is great!
[_They shake hands._]
+Elderly Party.+
What brings you here?
+Young Woman.+
ART, same as us,
Of course!
+Glove Young Man.+
Not on your life. For one thing, gloves.
I’m buyer for our firm, you know. And, next,
The usual thing.
+Young Woman.+
A girl!
+Glove Young Man.+
_The_ girl! She’s here
Somewhereabouts, messing with paint!
+Young Woman.+
Maybe
I know her. Reddish hair and rather plain?
+Glove Young Man.+
Hair auburn. Girl a peach!... Why, there she is!
Laura!
[_Looking toward the left._]
Laura, dear!
+Elderly Party.+
[_Making signs to_ +Young Woman+, _and going away, right._]
Two’s company.
+Young Woman.+
[_Following, looks back, appraising_ +Laura+.]
Distinctly red, and plain!
+Laura.+
[_Coldly._]
Charles, this is a surprise!
+Glove Young Man.+
Intended so!
But, say a joyful one!
+Laura.+
I--I--My breath
You’ve stolen!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Trying to kiss her._]
Sweetheart! Let me give it back!
+Laura.+
[_Repulsing him._]
So public!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Looking about._]
Not a soul in sight. Unless
You count that guy there!
[_Indicating portrait._]
+Laura.+
Mr. Black! I beg,
Insist, that you withdraw....
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Puzzled._]
What, guy?
+Laura.+
[_Shudders._]
The word,
Also your person, from this Presence!
+Glove Young Man.+
What
In thunder do you mean!
+Laura.+
[_Teeth on edge._]
Thunder, indeed!
[_She resumes her painting. Puzzled and discomfited, the_ +Glove
Young Man+ _sits on the bench._]
+Glove Young Man.+
[_After a pause._]
Delightful weather. Though a thunderstorm
Seems in the air!
[_Another pause._]
Not a bad-looking guy....
Beg pardon!
[_Rises and bows to the portrait._]
Individual!
And, from his sample there, he carries quite
As fine a line of gloves as I myself!
+Laura.+
[_Rises, shrieks, waving paint-brush._]
Creature!
+Glove Young Man.+
Referring to yours truly?
+Laura.+
Aye!
Begone!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Unable to believe it._]
Begone means Git? Skidoo?
+Laura.+
Translate
As pleases you, but do it!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Looks at her in silence, then turns to go, but suddenly changes
his mind._]
I’ll be hanged
If I.... What ails you, girl?
+Laura.+
I can’t explain.
+Glove Young Man.+
You loved me....
+Laura.+
Rather, thought I did!
+Glove Young Man.+
Nonsense!
You loved me well enough to promise--Yes,
You promised.
+Laura.+
[_Wildly._]
Spare me this remembrancing!
+Glove Young Man.+
What makes you talk so queerly!
+Laura.+
Who are you
To comprehend, were I to tell!
+Glove Young Man.+
You try!
Poetry-stuff’s not my long suit, but I
Can do a lot of comprehending! Fire
Away!...
[_Sits._]
Engagement’s off?
+Laura.+
It never was!
+Glove Young Man.+
What’s come between us? You’re the only girl
In all the world for me! And I am just
The same old Charley-boy you’ve always known!
+Laura.+
[_Hands over ears, shudders, then apostrophizes picture._]
Forgive, O Masterpiece, this squalid scene!
+Glove Young Man.+
Why, where does he come in?
+Laura.+
[_Takes a sudden resolution, and addresses_ +Glove Young Man+.]
The I erstwhile
You knew no longer am the I you see!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Considers this._]
I’m getting it! Go on!
+Laura.+
Into mine own
Came I, this very hour!
+Glove Young Man.+
Yea, verily!
Go right ahead!
+Laura.+
To me hath been vouchsafed
Behind the veil to glimpse, art’s face that screens
From gaze profane!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Airily._]
I haven’t an idea
Where we are bound for, but we’re on the way!
+Laura.+
To-day I start upon a pilgrimage!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Starts up._]
Where ... where’s your ticket taken to?
+Laura.+
[_Impressively._]
This spot!
+Glove Young Man.+
She’s crazy!
[_Falling back into seat._]
+Laura.+
Standing here, shall I be drawn
Across the border-line dividing art
From life, as such as you conceive it!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Unseen, mournfully._]
Oh!
[_Mournful echoes resound through the gallery._]
+Laura.+
[_Listens, a moment, puzzled, then continues._]
Absorbed, as ’twere, in yonder dusky shades.
[_Indicating portrait._]
Forth into sunlit groves the real I
Shall fare, and not alone! in Italy!
[_The mournful exclamations are repeated with intensity._]
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Wrought up to passion._]
She’s mad! This is your work, you villain, you!
[_Throws his gloves into the face of the portrait._]
[+Laura+ _shrieks wildly; cries of indignation from all the
pictures are heard. There is a flash of lightning, followed
by a loud thunder-clap. Then the_ +Young Man with a Glove+
_and the_ +Woman at her Toilet+ _are seen in the foreground,
together._]
+Woman at her Toilet.+
’Tis as I feared! Oh, save her!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
... And ourselves!
[_Together the two stand, arms upraised, appealing._]
+Young Man with a Glove+ _and_ +Woman at her Toilet+
O comrades! Ye Co-Masterpieces, here
Collected! In the sacred name of art
Avenge the insult that, offered to one,
Is offered to us all!
[_Cries from_ +Unseen Pictures+ _of “We will!”_]
Saints Michael, George,
Of Raphael....
+The Two Saints.+
Here! Here!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Works of Poussin--!
+Unseen Pictures.+
Here!
+Young Man with Gloves.+
Correggios! Michelangelos! Rembrandts!
Da Vincis! Rubens’! Antony Van Dycks!
Paolo Veronese! Rembrandts!
[_All answer to the roll-call._]
Help, in the name of Titian, and of art!
[_There is a vivid flash of lightning, followed by a terrific
thunder-clap. When the momentary darkness passes it is seen
that the_ +Young Man with a Glove+ _and the_ +Woman at her
Toilet+ _have disappeared;_ +Laura+ _is lying on the bench,
swooning, or asleep, while the_ +Glove Young Man+ _is in the
picture-pose, within the frame._]
+Glove Young Man.+
[_After a pause, breaking his picture-pose, addresses an
imaginary audience._]
Yes, it’s me all right,
The same old Charley-boy you know! I can’t explain
My present straitened circumstances, but
I’m quite aware how foolish I must look!
+Unseen Pictures.+
[_Menacingly, with a clash of swords._]
Hush!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Leaning forward, addresses them._]
Ladies, Gentlemen, and Landscapes!
This is an honor I did not expect!
But since ’tis thrust upon me....
+Unseen Pictures.+
Hush!
[_As before._]
+Glove Young Man.+
I won’t hush!... May I smoke?... Oh, very well!
If no one wants to play.... But just you wait!
[_Resumes picture-pose._ +Gardien+ _passes through, right to
left._]
Hey, Conductor! Stop this car! I want to get out! Conductor!
[+Gardien+ _passes on without noticing him. Pictures threaten as
before._ +Elderly Party+ _and_ +Young Woman+ _enter from the
right._]
+Elderly Party.+
I wonder how them two young courtin’ folks
Is gittin’ on!... Say, Mandy, don’t this look
Like Charley Black!
[_Staring at_ +Glove Young Man+.]
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Raising hat._]
Oh, Mrs. Johnson! Mandy! How-de-do!
Would you mind calling up a messenger?
Of course I’m doing this for pleasure, but....
+Elderly Party.+
It is his living image!
+Young Woman.+
[_Shocked._]
Charley Black,
Indeed? Why, Auntie, this is Art!
[_They go out, left._]
+Glove Young Man.+
I’m art,
Am I? We’ll see!
+Unseen Pictures.+
Hush!
[_The_ +Husband+ _and_ +Wife+ _enter from the left._]
+The Husband.+
[_Looking about._]
This is the room
We started from. We’ve lost our way again!
These galleries are wretchedly mapped out!
I shall report....
+Glove Young Man.+
Beg pardon! I myself
Have lost my way, and so if you....
+The Wife.+
My dear!
That portrait raised its hat to me!
+The Husband.+
What’s that?
How dare you, sir, take such a liberty!
[_Shaking his fist at the_ +Glove Young Man+.]
+The Wife.+
I think he wants to know the time!... Quarter
To five!
[_Consulting her watch, tells the_ +Glove Young Man+.]
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Groans._]
What, nearly time to close!
+The Wife.+
My dear,
He’s telling us it’s nearly time to close!
Most civil of him!
+The Husband.+
A disgrace to Art!
I should report the matter if I knew
To whom such matters are reported! Come!
[_Leading the_ +Wife+ _away to the right._]
+The Wife.+
[_Bowing politely to the_ +Glove Young Man+.]
Most civil!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Groans._ +Unseen Pictures+ _cry, “Hush!” He then shouts._]
Help! Help! Police!
[_Again the Pictures silence him. From the left the_ +German
Lady+ _returns, and from the right the_ +Youngest Pupil+.]
+Youngest Pupil.+
I want to see
If he’s come back!
[_The_ +German Lady+ _begins, “Ach Wunder--” but breaks off,
rubbing her eyes._]
+Youngest Pupil.+
Oh, it’s someone else!
+Teacher.+
You’re dreaming! It’s the same!
+Class.+
Of course it is!
+Youngest Pupil.+
He’s changed his clothes, then!
+Glove Young Man.+
Dear young lady, I
Am Charley Black. This is my business card.
If you would be so kind....
+Youngest Pupil.+
Oh! He’s alive!
+Teacher.+
He can’t be!
+Youngest Pupil.+
But he is! Aren’t you alive?
+Glove Young Man.+
I am, indeed; the livest ever. Though
That’s not exactly news to me!
+Youngest Pupil.+
He is!
He says he is himself!
+Teacher.+
[_Leading the_ +Youngest Pupil+ _away, right._]
He can’t be! If
He were ’twould say so here in Baedeker!
+Class.+
Of course!
+Glove Young Man.+
This grows monotonous!
[_Notices_ +German Lady+ _still gazing at him, puzzled._]
Although
Not introduced, if you would be so kind--
+German Lady.+
[_Shrieks, running away to the left._]
Ach, du lieber....
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Wearily._]
Gesundheit!
+German Lady.+
[_Returning, says with conviction._]
WUNDERSCHÖN!
[_Goes._]
+Glove Young Man.+
[_After a slight pause._]
I never was more highly entertained!
Yet one may have too much of a good thing.
Then, too, there’s business to attend to. So
If this distinguished company would drop
A hint how long the game will last--
[_It grows dark. From both sides pictures in their frames steal
forth, only their backs being presented to the audience. They
stand in a semicircle opposite the_ +Young Man+. _He bows
jauntily._]
Why, how-de-do!... I trust you like my looks!
[_It grows constantly darker. Mutterings of thunder are heard
from time to time, mingled with the clash of swords._]
Will someone kindly press the button, call
A waiter?... Or if any gentleman
Will lend his hat and half a dozen eggs,
I’ll make an omelette!... No?... Look here,
Fair play! How long am I in for: for life?
[_Pictures bow assent._]
No commutation for exemplary
Behavior, eh?
[_Pictures shake themselves as if saying no._]
... I move that you adjourn!
[_Pictures signify no._]
Oh, very well!
[_He whistles. The sword-clash grows louder._]
I see! Life’s short but art is long! Is that
Your motto?
[_Pictures signify assent._]
You intend to kill me?
[_Pictures assent._]
So!
The ayes would seem to have it! Go ahead!
Once in a lifetime only can one die!
And as an angel I would sooner be
The real article than just a sham,
Old, tarnished, cracked, and canvas-back, like--
[_There is a terrible clash, while the pictures seem to close
about the_ +Young Man+. _Suddenly the_ +Woman at her Toilet+
_runs in from the right, shrieking._]
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Spare him! Spare him to me!
+Glove Young Man.+
Good gracious! Who
Is this enthusiastic but somewhat
Imperfectly attired young female! Miss,
Your name escapes me, but ... my business card!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
As hostage let him live, to me enchained!
Price of the masterwork a mortal’s love
This day destroyed! I ask it in the name
Of Titian and of Art!
+Unseen Pictures.+
So be it!
+Others.+
Amen!
[_The Pictures in evidence retreat._]
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Come!
[+Glove Young Man+ _descends from frame._]
+Glove Young Man.+
Kindest thanks for timely help! But--who--?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Come forth into the world with me!
+Glove Young Man.+
Aren’t you
Afraid of taking cold?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Not while the sun is shining, and with you!
+Glove Young Man.+
Sunshine is so uncertain. If you had
A rag of fringe, a lambrequin, a sash,
To patch you up a bit! And then your hair--
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Am I not beautiful the way I am?
+Glove Young Man.+
Too beautiful by half!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
One cannot have
Too much of beauty! So all artists say!
+Glove Young Man.+
But my dear Miss ... or Madam, is it? I
Am not an artist! Such a thing--tap wood!
Has never happened in our family!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Your time has come! Not artist; work of art,
Like to myself, I’ll render you! Take off
Those hideous clothes!
+Glove Young Man.+
My goodness gracious me!
+Unseen Pictures.+
Do as she bids!
+Glove Young Man.+
How many and how much
Will satisfy the Louvre proprieties?
[_Reluctantly preparing to remove his coat._ +Laura+, _who has
wakened gradually, now sits up with a gasp._]
+Laura.+
Why, Charley Black! What would your mother say!
+Glove Young Man.+
If only it were mother!... Do you mind
Turning your back?
+Laura.+
How dare you!
+Glove Young Man.+
Oh, I dare
Do all that may become a work of art!
Who dares do more is none!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Oh, bravely said,
And worthy of our School!
[_Cries of “Hear, hear!” from_ +Unseen Pictures+.]
+Laura.+
[_Noticing the_ +Woman+ _for the first time, advances on her._]
You scandalous
Young Masterpiece--or, rather, Mistresspiece!
Go right back to the frame where you belong!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Never! Take you my place! With him I go,
When he is decently undressed!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Ruefully._]
I’ll wreathe myself in smiles!
+Laura.+
You will, will you! Oh, Charley Black!
What shall I do!
[_Bursting into tears._]
+Young Man with a Glove.+
[_Suddenly appears at her side._]
Absorbed in yon dusk shades,
Emerge ... and not alone! in sunlit groves
In Italy!
+Laura.+
[_Shrieks._]
How dare you! Get right back
Into your frame! Charley, put on your coat
And come with me!
+Unseen Pictures.+
Do as he bids!
+Laura.+
I won’t!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Fear not!
Although a chromo, as compared to us,
Ill-dressed, pretentious, modern at its worst,
Your hair is not unTitianesque, your lines
Susceptible of change!
+Laura.+
You horrid thing!
Charley, why don’t you knock him down?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
We waste the daylight! Come!
[_Trying to lead the_ +Glove Young Man+ _to the right._]
+Unseen Pictures.+
Do as she bids!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Ruefully, to_ +Laura+.]
Sorry, my dear! This lady seems to have
A lien upon me!--At your service, ma’am!
We’ll take a taxi to the nearest shop,
Outfitted with a raincoat, rubber shoes,
Hairpins and usual et ceteras
You won’t feel quite so, well, conspicuous
In Paris!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Wonted to the gaze am I
Of the admiring throng! As breath of life
To me their plaudits are! O welcome chance
On exhibition so to place myself!
Then, come!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
And you, into the background thrust
A hundred years or so haply may learn
Humbly, upon your knees, the rudiments
Of all you glibly chatter now about!
+Unseen Pictures.+
[_With a menacing clash._]
Do as they bid!
+Laura.+
I won’t! I’d sooner die!
Charley, forgive me! It is you I love,
While as for you--You cinquecento dude--
[_There is a terrible sword clash, followed by lightning and
violent thunder. When the darkness clears the_ +Young Man with
a Glove+ _is seen in his original attitude within his frame,
while the_ +Woman at her Toilet+ _has disappeared._ +Laura+ _is
composedly gathering up her painting materials, the_ +Glove
Young Man+, _fully equipped, assisting her._]
+Glove Young Man.+
Storm’s over.
[_Picking up the easel._]
+Laura.+
[_Looking at her study of the picture._]
’Tisn’t really good!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Admiring it._]
Oh, yes,
It is, though!
+Laura.+
[_Comparing it with the original._]
No. I know enough to know
What I don’t know! Still, I will keep it as
A souvenir.
[_Dreamily._]
+Glove Young Man.+
Of what?
+Laura.+
[_As if waking, laughs._]
I do not know.
Charley, he looks a little bit like you!
+Glove Young Man.+
Well, I can stand it, if he can! This way!
[_Leading_ +Laura+ _to the right._]
I saw a picture of a red-haired girl....
Like you!
[_They laugh, and kiss._]
+Gardien.+
[_Passing through._]
On ferme!
+Glove Young Man.+
Where would you like to spend
The honeymoon: in Italy?
+Laura.+
N-no!
That’s too exciting. Just some quiet place!
+Glove Young Man.+
Why not Niagara?
+Laura.+
[_Agreeing._]
Niagara!
+Gardien.+
[_Again passing through._]
On ferme! On ferme!
[_The lovers kiss again and pass out on the right._]
+Gardien.+
[_Again passing through._]
On ferme!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Advances stealthily a few steps from the right._]
Signore.... Our ruse succeeded!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
So it seems,
Madonna!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Fare you well, then!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Fare you well!
[_The_ +Woman at her Toilet+ _disappears on the right._ +The
Young Man with a Glove+ _becomes a picture again. The light
fades. The_ +Gardien+, _again passing through, cries, “On
ferme!” on which the curtains are drawn._]
HIS MOTHER’S FACE
* *
_Picture, Une Fête Champêtre, Jean Antoine Watteau (1684-1721)._
[Illustration]
HIS MOTHER’S FACE
+Characters+: +Jean Antoine Watteau+ _in his last hour, a_
+Sister+, _and a_ +Boy+.
_The stage is divided from right to left by a screen which,
when only the forefront is illuminated, represents the wall
of a room. When light is thrown on the back scene it serves
as a misty veil that lends an effect of illusion to the
pictures there presented. These pictures, groupings from the
well-known canvases of Watteau, are supposed to be conjured up
in the fancy of the dying artist, the spectator sharing his
super-normal vision. The_ +Sister+ _and the_ +Boy+, _however,
who are ministering to him, betray no consciousness whatever
that the room has ceased to be bounded by a wall._
_The curtains, parting, disclose a simply furnished room. At
one side, toward the front, on a couch lies_ +Watteau+, _the_
+Sister+ _and the_ +Boy+ _in attendance on him._
+Watteau.+
[_Rousing himself._]
Sister, brush and palette bring me.
Play, Jeannot, on your guitar.
While I paint, some ballad sing me.
Faring on a journey far,
Sieur Watteau, Academician,
For one sitter’s portrait calls
On remembrance, art-magician,
Ere the final darkness falls.
[_The_ +Sister+ _having complied with his request, he makes an
effort to work._]
+The Boy.+
[_Sings to his guitar._]
_Days of Liesse! Days of Liesse!
Season of wreathèd lovers, song, and spring!
Come, warm me with your old-time tenderness,
Before my soul takes wing!_
[_The wall at the back of the room seems to dissolve, and, as if
in a dream, appear phantasmagorial groups of Watteau Cavaliers
and Ladies, in a garden presided over by a statue of Venus.
Exclaiming, the artist moves, as if to advance toward the
vision, then sinking back, waves it away._]
+Watteau.+
Gallants, dames, of courtly fashion,
Butterflies of ballet corps,
Airy forms of painted passion,
Pass! Binds me your spell no more!
[_The vision fades._]
+The Boy.+
[_Sings to his guitar._]
_Enchanted Isle! Enchanted Isle!
Who has not known your lure when youth is fair?
But, of all barques that seek ye this long while,
What one has anchored there!_
+Watteau.+
For Cythera not embarking--
Ah, how oft I’ve made the start!--
Back to Valenciennes I’m harking,
Home that holds my Flemish heart!
In a simple tiler’s cottage
Fronting on the market-square,
Spinning, mending, making pottage,
Praying, bides my mother there!
[_He paints a little. The_ +Sister+ _moves softly about the room,
ministering to his comfort, while the_ +Boy+ _plays a few
measures. Then, with a reminiscent smile_, +Watteau+ _pauses in
his work and speaks again._]
Oh, those merry Saturnalia,
In the reign of St. Pansard,
Clad in Carnival regalia,
Then at Easter, dying hard!
And, neath Abbey walls monastic,
Gilles, Cassandra, gay Margot,
Mezzetin of trick fantastic--
These are the old friends I know!
+The Boy.+
[_Sings to his guitar._]
_Oh, Valenciennes! Oh, Valenciennes!
Homing, my heart seeks yours at set of sun
To join the buoyant women, stalwart men,
Who dance, their day’s work done!_
[_Again the wall dissolves, and a vision appears, this time of
Flemish peasants dancing, as in the picture La Vraie Gaieté.
Then follow Gilles, and his companions of the Strolling Italian
Comedians; Cassandra, Margot, Mezzetin, Pantaloon. Extending
his arms toward these, the artist exclaims with joy. When
the vision fades he sinks back on his couch with a sigh of
satisfaction. The_ +Sister+, _who has been sitting quietly
watching him, rises._]
+Watteau.+
[_Looks from the_ +Sister+ _to a crucifix on the side-wall, then
to her again._]
Symbol of the Crucifixion,
Sister, now I fain would kiss!
[_The_ +Sister+ _brings him the crucifix, but in the act of
taking it, the artist pauses, his eye arrested by the crudity
of its workmanship, and he pushes it away with a gesture of
repulsion._]
Ah, there lies no benediction
In such travesty as this!
[_With a gentle smile, as of one humoring a child, the_ +Sister+
_replaces the sacred symbol. The_ +Boy+, _meantime, plays a
few soft, desultory measures. Picking up his brush, with it
the artist outlines a cross in the air, then again essays to
paint. After a futile stroke or so, however, his nerveless hand
drops to his side. Then, gathering his faculties for a supreme
effort, he speaks, slowly, but distinctly._]
Sieur Watteau, at thirty-seven,
Decorate by royal grace,
Leaves his master-work to Heaven,
Just--my dear--old--mother’s--face!
[_The brush drops from his hand as his head sinks forward, then
back on the pillow. The watching_ +Sister+ _makes the sign of
the cross._]
+The Boy.+
[_Sings to his guitar._]
_In Valenciennes, in Valenciennes
Players no more frequent the market-place,
And I to Heaven now must turn, as then
To see my mother’s face!_
[_Slowly, noiselessly, the curtains are drawn._]
A GAINSBOROUGH LADY
* *
_A Christmas Masque._
_Picture, Study for a Portrait (The Duchess of Devonshire), by Thomas
Gainsborough (1727-1788)._
_These verses are reprinted by permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons
from Scribner’s Magazine for January, 1902._
[Illustration]
A GAINSBOROUGH LADY
+Characters+: _A_ +Gainsborough Lady+ _in a picture. Also a
Gainsborough_ +Gentleman+, _supposed to be the subject of the
portrait which is the_ +Lady’s+ _next-door neighbor on the
wall of a gallery. As the_ +Gentleman+ _remains invisible and
enforcedly silent throughout the scene his proximate presence is
inferred solely by the_ +Lady’s+ _addressing her discourse to
him._
+The Lady+, _suitably framed, is revealed, but in deep shadow. Soon a
clock in the distance musically strikes the hour of twelve, upon
which a pallid moonbeam, gradually becoming bright, falls on the
picture. When this is fully illuminated the_ +Lady+ _slowly comes
to life._
+The Lady.+
’Twas prophesied
Some Christmas dawning,
’Twixt midnight and morning,
Would speech to us restore!
[_She peers from her frame about the gallery._]
My husband-lover, do you live
Below?
Or upward soar?
If he were near I’d know; he was so talkative!
[_Sagaciously wagging her head._]
Withal, the sweetest soul that ever sinned and died!
“Gad’s life”
[_reminiscently she strikes the attitude of a connoisseur_],
“now stab my vitals if they ain’t
A credit to the artist’s paint!”
(’Twas Colley Cibber spoke!) “So time will show!”
The day we sat for Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!
[_Looking farther from her frame first to one side, then the
other, on her right she evidently recognizes her neighbor, for
she utters an exclamation of delight, while a tender smile
lights her face._]
Then it _is_ you!
How I have wondered--!
After being sundered
A century--or more!
[_Evidently the_ +Gentleman+ _would have liked to set her right,
for she cuts him off sharply._]
Oh, yes! insist on those odd years!
Altho’
Touching that score,
Your own accounts, my dear, were always in arrears!
’Twas monstrous shocking how your debts were overdue!
[_The_ +Gentleman+ _would seem to wish to deny this._]
But, if you’ll let me speak for once, ’tis quaint
To spring to life from canvas, paint,
And be just boy and girl, just belle and beau,
As when we sat for Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!
Sometimes, indeed,
In sunbeam’s glinting,
I have said, “He’s squinting,
“That gentleman next door!
“Pleased with my eyes, perchance, my shape,
“Some beau,
“Perhaps some bore!
“Who would a picture-gallery acquaintance scrape!”
[_The_ +Gentleman+ _probably would like to protest “’Pon my
life!” but she checks him._]
Now, now, you know you cannot innocency plead!
You know as well as I you were no saint!
A man of flesh and blood, not paint!
[_The_ +Gentleman’s+ _eyes must be rolling, for the_ +Lady+
_waves him back, as it were, to herself, while virtuously
drawing her ’kerchief closer about her._]
Yon frescoed nymphs were never taught to sew
As we who sat for Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!
It seems, then, dear,
Long ages flitting,
Here we’ve hung unwitting!
(I trying to ignore
The flirt presumer by my side!)
When, lo!
One moonbeam frore
Quickens our portraits into life, bridegroom and bride!--
’Twas God who joined us living, dead, the auctioneer!
But hearts beat on as hearts, behind attaint
Of coating varnish, garish paint!
Love can a fairer immortality bestow
Than that we sat for Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!
What matters age!
Since fortune chancy
Yields this hour, in fancy
We’ll live the sweet life o’er--
Though each be but poor pictured ghost
A-row!--
When you shed gore
To win the season’s belle, the town and tavern toast!
(My dear, I’m modish still! This hat is all the rage!)
You fought!
[_Her change of tone indicates that the_ +Gentleman+ _would
disclaim this._]
You did! That duel was no feint!
’Twas crimson blood, not crimson paint,
You rogue! and crimson wine you caused to flow,
All in the days of Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!
Do you recall
That sweet pursuing,
Fleeing game of wooing?--
The night this frock I wore?--
[_She listens. Faint strains of phantasmal music are heard._]
It echoes in remembrance yet....
High, low!
We hold the floor!
[_She makes a deep curtsey toward the_ +Gentleman+, _then takes
steps to the music._]
The violins play Boccherini’s minuet,
And you are sparking me at Lady Betty’s ball!
These hands poured wine, prepared confectioned daint
(Your heart and stomach were not paint!)
Next time you called ... these lips did not say No!...
All in the days of Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!
I won’t deny
That you were trying!
[_Obviously the_ +Gentleman+ _would protest._]
Ah, ’tis useless lying!
I have known you to snore
After your dinner, and in church!
’Tis so!
But to the core
Fine! Never leaving foe or comrade in the lurch!
An English gentleman of a good school gone by!
I love you aye, sweetheart, despite restraint
Of framing canvas, fading paint!
And, speak! Don’t you...?
[_She holds out her hands to the_ +Gentleman+, _but, as just then
the distant sounds of dawn make themselves heard, suddenly
checks his impending advance._]
Hush, hush! That shrill cock’s crow
Says, “Peace, who sat for Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!”
[_The concluding words die on the_ +Lady’s+ _lips, as, resuming
her original attitude, she stiffens slowly again into a
portrait, while the moonlight fades into the gray of dawn._]
ARTIST-MOTHER AND CHILD
* *
_Picture, Mme. Vigée Lebrun and her Daughter by Mme. Vigée Lebrun
(1755-1842)._
[Illustration]
ARTIST-MOTHER AND CHILD
_The curtains parting, disclose_ +Mme. Vigée Lebrun+ _and her little
daughter, behind a suitable frame, in the picture-pose. The
effect is as if the spectator, through a transparent wall, had
caught a glimpse of them in their living-room, a blank wall of
which forms their background._ +Mme. Lebrun+ _is gazing intently
toward the front, supposedly studying their reflection in a
looking-glass. Against her contentedly nestles_ +The Child+.
_Soon, satisfied with the result of her observation_, +Mme.
Lebrun+, _always behind the frame, reaches for painting materials
that lie beyond the scene, and prepares to work on a small study
for the picture she is projecting. Suddenly the sound of distant
firing is heard. She pauses, brush in hand. When the firing
is followed by a rough shout of triumph, and a snatch of the
Marseillaise, she drops her brush and clasps_ +The Child+ _to her
bosom hard._
+The Child.+
What ails my mother, in yon looking-glass
Our portrait studying she trembles, turns white?
Why drops her brush whenever people pass,
Marching, hurrahing through the streets?... So tight
You clasp, it hurts!
[+Mme. Lebrun+ _caresses the_ +Child+ _soothingly, and, picking
up her brush, resumes work. Every now and then the distant
echoes of revolution are heard. Soon the_ +Child+ _speaks
again._]
How gay seems Paris! Guns
Firing! Who is the Saint whose fête with praise
Is being kept?
+Mme. Lebrun.+
Called by her red-capped sons
St. Liberty; her hymn the Marseillaise.
[_A slight pause._]
+The Child.+
This portrait, will you give it me to keep,
If still I stand and am, oh, very good?
+Mme. Lebrun.+
Perhaps some fairy, when you are asleep,
Will turn it into pretty frocks and food!
[_The_ +Child+ _laughs and claps her hands delightedly. There is
another pause during which_ +Mme. Lebrun+ _works._]
+The Child.+
King, Queen, why never go we now to see:
Louis the kind, fair Marie Antoinette?
+Mme. Lebrun.+
[_Trying to speak lightly._]
No more at Trianon or Tuileries,
Their new address have they not sent us yet!
[_There is another pause, during which a louder note of
revolution is heard, and a red flash as of flame is seen._
+Mme. Lebrun+ _listens anxiously, but as it dies away, resumes
work._]
+The Child.+
Know you the artist Madame Guillotine?
+Mme. Lebrun.+
Child!
[_Horrified._]
+The Child.+
[_Proud of imparting news._]
Aye! Commissioned by France, heard I said,
Soon will she execute our king and queen,
But not as did you, full-length, just the head!
[_A snatch of the Marseillaise again is heard._ +Mme. Lebrun+
_gives way to sudden, silent weeping._]
+The Child.+
Mother, dear, see, where on our portrait fell
Tears!
[_Distressed._]
Mother, let me kiss your tears away!
+Mme. Lebrun.+
[_Wiping eyes, and forcing cheerfulness._]
Aye, for I work in oils, not aquarelle!
[_Prepares to resume work._]
Come!
+The Child.+
First at counting-out suppose we play!
[+Mme. Lebrun’s+ _lips form the word “counting-out” as if this
held an ominous note, then lending herself to the child’s
humor, holds her again in the picture-pose, while together they
croon a little nursery rhyme._]
+Mme. Lebrun.+
Marguerite of Paris, lend me your slippers gray!
+The Child.+
And we will go to Paradise on this sunshiny day.
+Mme. Lebrun.+
Where we shall see the little birds that Jesus made of clay!
+The Child.+
Each evening in the chapel old he lights the candles, without doubt.
+Mme. Lebrun.+
Bread.
+The Child.+
Pipe.
+Mme. Lebrun.+
Bridge of gold.
+Together.+
The prettiest child goes _out_!
[_They kiss, then fall into silence, in the picture-attitude._]
[_The curtains close._]
QUEEN AND EMPEROR
* *
_Picture, Portrait of Queen Louisa, by Gustav Richter (1823-1884)._
[Illustration]
QUEEN AND EMPEROR
+Characters+: +King Frederick William III+ _and_ +Queen Louisa+ _of
Prussia; their two sons, the_ +Crown Prince Fritz+ _and his
younger brother_ +William+; _their infant daughter_ +Louisa+.
_The_ +Countess Voss+, _Mistress of the Queen’s Household._
+Baron von Hardenburg+, _Generals_ +Scharnhorst+ _and_ +Blücher+.
_Two_ +Maids+ _of the Queen’s retinue. The infant Princess’s_
+Nurse+. _Of these only the principals need appear. The others
may be inferred from being addressed._ +Napoleon Bonaparte+,
_Emperor of France_; +Talleyrand-Perigord+, _his Minister of
Foreign Affairs._
+Scene+: _A hall in a house at Tilsit._
+Time+: _July, 1807._
_To render this scene effective great care must be exercised in
the stage management. The_ +Queen+ _throughout is the pivotal
person, the central figure. At no moment is the full group in
view; the characters press forward as the text requires, those
invisible lending their assistance by exclamations indicative
of the emotions roused--hatred of_ +Bonaparte+, _love of the
Fatherland, and the like. In minor details historical accuracy
has obviously been sacrificed to dramatic effect. The two princes
did not accompany their mother to Tilsit_, +Princess Louisa+ _was
not born till the year following the truce. Nor does Richter’s
painting, the final tableau, represent the Tilsit lodging. The
main story, however, lies close to fact. In the short dialogue
between mother and lads the general pictorial effect should
follow the painting by Steffeck_, +Queen Louisa+ _and Her Two
Elder_ +Sons+ _on the Luisenweg near Koenigsberg. For the scene
between the_ +Queen+ _and_ +Napoleon+ _a hint may be gathered
from Gosse’s picture. Portraits of_ +Frederick William III+,
+Countess Voss+ _and others may be found in historical works. The
final tableau shows Richter’s painting of_ +Queen Louisa+. _For
this, by a simple mechanical contrivance the picture area must
be narrowed, the frame closing in so as to present the solitary
figure on the stairs in the right picture-proportion._
[_As the curtain rises the_ +Queen’s+ _maids laden with wraps and
hand-baggage are seen, disappearing up the stair. The royal party
enters from the left, the_ +King+, _bareheaded, escorting the_
+Queen+, _who is in travelling attire._]
+The King.+
This, dear one, is our lodgment. Poor the best
The fiend allows us.
[_He sighs. The others groan._]
+The Queen.+
[_Cheerfully._]
It will serve. A comb,
Water to cleanse this travel-soil, and then--
Napoleon!
[_The others sigh heavily._]
+The King.+
[_With solicitude._]
Louisa, did I well
To countenance your coming? Hardenberg,
The Czar, all think your woman’s wit may win
Some peace for Prussia far beyond the terms
The monster yields to our diplomacy!
But an that devil Corsican you fear
To meet--!
+The Queen.+
_I_ fear!
[_Laughs._]
Daughter of Mecklenburg,
And Frederick William’s wife!
[_Kisses the_ +King+.]
That I may fail,
Ah, that alone I fear! And yet if one,
One fort, one smallest village, aye, one foot
Of earth for our belovèd Fatherland
I gain I shall not wholly fail!
[_The_ +King+ _embraces her, while the others cry “Long live
her Gracious Majesty Queen Louisa.” The_ +Queen+, _having
acknowledged the demonstration, continues._]
What mannered brute
This mushroom Emperor?
[_Checks the_ +King+ _who is about to reply._]
Nay; tell me not.
I’ll meet him unprepared, unprejudiced.
+The King.+
A brute describes it. Just a brute, replete
With ill-got conquest. Tyrant, petty, mean.
The Czar, myself, his guests enforced, his slaves,
Almost I said!--he heaps with insult, guised
As compliment!
[_The others groan._]
Oh, we must dine with him!
Our sweet society he’ll not forego!
And so, bethink you, I, who love the meal
At homely noon, now eat at eight at night!
Not born to such convention, yet the beast
Would change the clock, elect himself a god--
Napoleon!
[_Great demonstration from the rest._]
+The Countess Voss.+
[_Impressively._]
He apes the English. More,
He passes them! Their heathen dinner hour
Absorbs the afternoon, I’m told, from four
To five!
[_A shocked murmur from all._]
+The Queen.+
[_Excited._]
Hope! Hope! Huzzah! A ray of hope,
The first! Who apes, mark you, that thing he fears;
And by that thing he fears will some day fall!
O little upstart, self-elected god,
Invincible no more proclaim yourself!
Unwitting your Achilles heel you’ve bared!
Oh, I could hug those English!
+The King.+
[_With a caress._]
Optimist!
[_Sighs heavily again._]
Noon or nocturne, his bread sticks i’ my throat!
The pliant Alexander smiles, digests!
But I--
[_Breaks off with emotion._]
’Tis for my Prussia!
[_Cries of “Long live His Gracious Majesty.”_]
+The Queen.+
[_With a caress._]
Dearest one!
The hour of tryst approaches! Take the boys!
[_The_ +Princes+ _come forward._]
’Tis ages since you’ve seen them. Mark their growth!
And you, dear Voto
[_addressing_ +Countess Voss+],
look to baby!
[_The_ +Nurse+ _with the_ +Infant+ _advances. The_ +Queen+ _shows
the_ +King+.]
See!
The love!
+The Countess Voss.+
Her Royal Highness lacks a name!
+The King.+
Louisa for her peerless mother! Yet,
O hapless child, our kingdom in the dust,
What crownèd heads will dare to sponsor thee?
+The Queen.+
A fig for kings and queens who hold aloof
From sorrow! Goethe, Schiller, all
Blood-princes of the realm of intellect,
In spirit lay your hands upon her brow!
And, present, Blücher, grim old warrior;
Dear Scharnhorst, who have cleft your upward way
With consecrated sword to noble heights;
Germans of Germany, where’er ye bide,
Godparent this poor infant; guide her steps
In ways God-fearing, like your own, to Heav’n!
[_Presenting the child to the group. All press about her with
great demonstration and cries of “Long live Her Royal Highness
Princess Louisa!”_]
They go, singing: “All hail, our Gracious King!
Long live our noble King, God save the King!”
+The King.+
You’d hearten stones!
[_Kisses her hands._]
Until we meet again!
+Prince William.+
[_Clinging to the_ +Queen’s+ _right arm._]
I’ll go pick you some cornflowers. And yet
’Tis said that blossoms blue mean hope deferred,
Desires beyond fulfilment!
+The Queen.+
Thus they bring
Sky to our earth!
+The Crown Prince.+
[_On the_ +Queen’s+ _left._]
Stoop, Mother. Whisper low.
You’re fighting for the throne ... my throne to be!
Yet ... whisper! I don’t want to be a king!
Poor father, see how sad it makes him! Then
Last Christmas did not Santa Claus pass by
Our wretched palace? No gift-laden tree
He brought, for, sooth, we’re children of a king!
+The Queen.+
[_Tenderly._]
My Fritz, our burdens ’tis not ours to choose!
Come, lift your head! That’s my brave lad! Now say
The little catechism that we made
Together!
+The Crown Prince.+
Crown Prince am I
Of Prussia.
+Prince William.+
[_Takes his brother’s hand._]
I am your next brother!
+Both Princes.+
And in our veins flows blood of Frederick
The Great. And we do dedicate our lives
To our lov’d Fatherland to set it free!
[_Each then takes a hand of the_ +Queen+ _and kisses it. They
join their father._ +Prince William+ _suddenly runs back to his
mother._ +Napoleon+, _attended by_ +Talleyrand+, _enters on the
left. They pause, unseen by the Germans, listening._]
+Prince William.+
Is’t true the devil Bonaparte has horns,
Cleft hoof, and tail?
+The Queen.+
[_Between laughter and tears._]
Indeed I would ’twere true,
For that would make me laugh instead of--
[_Turns, runs upstairs with a slightly hysterical laugh. The
boys go off with their father._ +Napoleon+ _and_ +Talleyrand+
_advance, laughing._]
+Talleyrand.+
A flattered portrait, Sire, they paint of you!
+Napoleon.+
[_Shrugs shoulders._]
Our guest, dear Frederick William the Third
Of Prussia has been writing letters home!
[_Takes snuff._]
+Talleyrand.+
The lady’s tardy!
+Napoleon.+
Early rather I.
My whim to catch her off her guard! Poor soul,
We’ll grant her grace to don her bauble crown!
+Talleyrand.+
Interpreted, which favor means the terms
Of Tilsit’s Truce the Tilsit Peace will stand,
Unmodified by fair Louisa’s plea?
+Napoleon.+
Now, Talleyrand, much as I love the sex,
Whene’er did woman’s wiles deflect my star?
+Talleyrand.+
[_Shrugs shoulders._]
Or soon or late the greatest conqueror--
’Tis writ on high! his Armageddon meets.
To witness, Cæsar!
+Napoleon.+
[_In sudden panic._]
Talleyrand! You mean
Some ambuscade, some Brutus’ dagger waits
My breast?
+Talleyrand.+
[_With malign joy._]
Oh, Sire! The name upon my lips
Was Cleopatra’s!
+Napoleon.+
[_Recovers poise._]
Pish! Scoffer, begone!
For, hark! Yon nervous clearing of the throat,
A dainty frou-frou, and light-tripping step
Announce my suppliant!
[_Urges_ +Talleyrand+ _off at the left._]
+Talleyrand.+
Surely you need
Protection, Sire?
+Napoleon.+
From Cleopatra? Nay;
I’m Cæsar, not Mark Antony!
[+Talleyrand+ _bows and goes. The_ +Queen+, _attired as in
Richter’s picture, but crowned, as in Gosse’s, descends._
+Napoleon+ _meets her halfway, takes her hand, conducts her
down a stair._]
+The Queen.+
[_Curtseying._]
Your Imperial Highness!
+Napoleon.+
[_Bowing over her hand._]
Your Majesty!
[_Releases her._]
Welcome to Tilsit!
+The Queen.+
I thank you, Sire. But Tilsit’s Prussian soil!
So Tilsit cries its own welcome to me!
+Napoleon.+
[_Aside._]
Impertinent!
+The Queen.+
But you, Sire, find yourself
In Tilsit welcome?
+Napoleon.+
[_Bows with mock courtesy._]
Thanks. On Prussian soil
Myself, my legions, count ourselves at home!
+The Queen.+
[_Sighs._]
Not mine with you to bandy words. I come
To--
[_Looking up for the first time breaks off with a start._]
+Napoleon.+
[_Maliciously._]
Aha! Confess you miss horns, hoof and tail!
+The Queen.+
[_With sincerity._]
I own, your portraits wrong you, only show--
[_Breaks off._]
+Napoleon.+
Speak freely!
+The Queen.+
So, or not at all. They show
An--well, adventurer!
+Napoleon.+
And so I am!
+The Queen.+
Yet who to arrogance of conquest brings
The brow of Cæsar’s innate majesty!
+Napoleon.+
[_Aside._]
The Siren, would she Cleopatra me?
Best be on guard! Permit like compliment.
A queen? A goddess rather. Child of Zeus,
Athene. Aphrodite’s self!
+The Queen.+
Pray, Sire,
Spare mockery. In print for all to read
Have you set forth disparagement of me:
“Cheap intrigante,” and “would-be Joan-of-Arc,”
“A petticoated politician who
“The State embroils, sheds blood for pastime!” Worst,
My wifely fame have you not scorned to slur!
+Napoleon.+
Madame, upon my honor. I protest--
+The Queen.+
We’ll put that by. Not for myself, I plead
For Prussia.
+Napoleon.+
Well, with Prussia what’s amiss?
+The Queen.+
A fatal malady. Surfeit of France!
+Napoleon.+
A general infection, so it seems,
Through Europe. To return to petticoats,
What fabric this?
[_Touching a fold of the_ +Queen’s+ _dress._]
+The Queen.+
[_Bitterly._]
Chiffons? At such time, Sire,
Shall we discuss chiffons!
+Napoleon.+
’Twould interest
The Empress.
+The Queen.+
Josephine--her heart, ’tis said,
Is kind. Her husband she adores, as I
Mine. O, to my entreaties might she add
Her gentle voice!
+Napoleon.+
[_Aside, bitterly._]
Children this woman bears,
Sons, lusty, beautiful! In fine, Madame,
What will you?
+The Queen.+
Germany for Germans; that,
No more, no less!
+Napoleon.+
[_Sneering._]
Too modest the request!
+The Queen.+
We ask but for our own!
+Napoleon.+
What, with my troops
In Berlin, Danzig, Magdeburg?
+The Queen.+
What’s that
But hostile occupancy, while the toll
You claim as war’s indemnity, sad price
Of brave young blood that had been better spent,
Is highway robbery?
+Napoleon.+
By any name
Shall I exact it.
+The Queen.+
[_Advancing a step._]
Ah, Napoleon!
You love your kin. A thousand proofs declare
How close the tie. So dear, dearer, to me
My children!
+Napoleon.+
[_Aside._]
Sons, princes of royal blood
Bears she her mate!--So close, indeed, kin’s tie
That brothers, sisters, and in-laws I crown
Sov’reigns!
+The Queen.+
[_With sarcastic laughter._]
Kings, queens, made overnight,
Turned out by wholesale from a factory,
And dealt out broadcast, like a pack of cards,
Over the map! Like poets, kings are born,
Not made. It takes an ancestor or so,
Some generations, to produce a lawn,
A monarch, and a gentleman!
+Napoleon.+
[_Bows._]
Some hold
That genius is sufficing ancestry!
You think, Madame, the skies will fall unless
On Prussia’s throne a Hohenzollern sits?
+The Queen.+
[_Bows assent._]
While Hohenzollern draws the breath of life,
Born, bred to lofty service, in the name
Of country, home and God, with heart that beats
Within a mighty people’s heart! Napoleon,
Leave not the Fatherland a cripple, maimed,
Broken of spirit. Take your victor’s slice,
But one small portion, independent, free,
Leave to our ancient right and privilege!
+Napoleon.+
A healthy, growing little enemy
Outside my gates?
+The Queen.+
Not so. Your neighbor, friend!
+Napoleon.+
My friends I buy--and sell my neighbors!
+The Queen.+
Then
God help you!
+Napoleon.+
As He does. God always fights
Upon the side with big Battalions!
+The Queen.+
God help you in the day when Germany
Returns your call in France!
+Napoleon.+
Not mine that day!
+The Queen.+
Not yours; a Hohenzollern’s. We shall live,
Despite Napoleon!
+The Princes.+
[_Without._]
Mother! Where’s our mother!
+Napoleon.+
Sons!...
Your Majesty, deign to accept....
[_Plucks a rose and offers it to the_ +Queen+.]
+The Queen.+
Dear God!
I ask a kingdom and he offers me....
+Napoleon.+
A rose, no less, no more!
+The Queen.+
Alas! We fail.
’Tis Heaven’s will we fail! My comfort this;
The worse our failure, speedier our day
Of vindication. Triumphs bought with blood,
Empires founded on hate, by hatred fall.
Undompted England has a word to say.
And, lo! the first weak point your armor shows,
Your admirable poise the least disturbed,
Without a neighbor, friend, God pity you!
We Germans fail to-day, our treasure drained,
Our lands partitioned, e’en ourselves enslaved.
And yet to the last gasp our hearts beat high
For Germany, our souls belong to God!
[_She makes a low obeisance and retires upstairs._]
+Napoleon.+
A plague upon the woman with her sons!
[_Throwing down the rose and trampling on it._]
+Talleyrand.+
[_Entering from the left._]
You called me, Sire?
+Napoleon.+
[_Sardonically._]
You eavesdropper!
+Talleyrand.+
Ah, say,
You diplomat!
[_Both laugh._]
And how found you the Queen?
+Napoleon.+
A handsome woman with a fluent tongue.
Ye gods, how she ran on!
[_Affects to yawn._]
+Talleyrand.+
[_Aside._]
How he is moved,
All white and trembling! And the Tilsit Peace?
+Napoleon.+
Remains as drafted.
+Talleyrand.+
Not one single point
Conceded to the lady?
+Napoleon.+
Did I know
Terms harsher than we’ve made--!
+Talleyrand.+
[_Picking up the rose._]
Your Majesty
Has dropped this peace-token?
+Napoleon.+
[_Snatching the rose, throws it back into the face of the
Minister._]
You devil, you!
[_He strides off to the left._ +Talleyrand+ _laughs silently. The
lights are lowered._]
+Talleyrand.+
[_Looks toward an unseen window._]
A storm? A passing cloud!
+The Princes.+
[_Outside, call._]
Oh, Mother, dear!
+Talleyrand.+
[_Musingly._]
To-day, Napoleon’s! But in the end....
+The King.+
[_Outside, calling._]
Louisa!
+The Princes.+
Mother!
[+Talleyrand+ _takes a pinch of snuff and follows_ +Napoleon+.]
+The Queen.+
[_Answering, calls._]
Coming, dears!
[_The lights, now bright, show her, in a narrowed frame,
descending the stair, as in Richter’s picture. She pauses,
reflecting._]
+The Queen.+
[_To herself._]
Failure!
As advocate for Germany, I’ve failed!
And yet--
+The King.+
[_Heard, nearer._]
Louisa!
+The Princes.+
[_Nearer._]
Mother!
+The Queen.+
Coming, dears!
[_The curtains close on her, as she pauses, holding a thought of
hope, in spite of present failure, for the future of Germany._]
A MILLET GROUP
* *
_Picture, The Angelus (L’Angelus du Soir), by Jean François Millet
(1814-1875)._
[Illustration]
A MILLET GROUP
+Characters+ (Taken from Millet’s paintings).
_The Man with the Hoe_ _L’Homme à la Houe_
_A Mother and Child_ _La Sortie_
_Two Washerwomen_ _Les Lavandières_
_A Youth_ _Le Semeur_
_A Husband and Wife_ _L’Angelus du Soir_
_The_ +Voice of Millet+ _heard in a snatch of song._
_The frame must be proportioned, the scene prepared, for the final
tableau, The Angelus. At one moment or another each picture is
presented, the characters not belonging to it dropping naturally
to right and left, as if passing and repassing in a field. The
dialogue is accompanied by a simple, natural action except when
a picture-attitude is being held, when a natural pause must
be achieved. Before the curtains are drawn a horn is heard in
the distance, and the tinkling of cowbells. Then silence. The
curtains drawn disclose the field of L’Angelus du Soir, but with
the solitary figure of_ +The Man with the Hoe+, _L’Homme à la
Houe, occupying the stage. He remains immobile for an appreciable
time, till the picture shall have been recognized and the spirit
of the scene imposed. Then the_ +Mother+ _carrying her child, La
Sortie, appears at the right. The_ +Mother+ _stands, watching
the_ +Man+, _for a short space, then speaks._
+The Mother.+
A sou for your thoughts!
+The Man.+
[_Turns as if wakened from sleep._]
Eh? My thoughts?
[_Laughs._]
That’s a joke!
Now and then when my back is a-weary I pause,
Draw a breath, wipe the sweat off!
[_Suits the action to the word._]
But, thoughts...!
Are you troubled with such?
+The Woman.+
[_Advancing._]
I don’t know! As a girl
I read fairy-tales; dreamed as I dusted and span
Or helped in the field!
[_Laughter is heard. From the left come the two_ +Washerwomen+
_with their baskets. They halt, seeing the others._]
+The Older Washerwoman.+
On my word! One would think ’twas a funeral, feast,
That you’re stopping to chatter!
+The Man.+
[_Indicating the_ +Mother+ _with a jerk of his head._]
She’s telling her dreams!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_With curiosity._]
Has she dreams?
[_From the right comes the_ +Youth+, _whistling. He also pauses._]
+The Mother.+
[_Apologetically, disclaiming the notion of indulging in dreams._]
Oh, not nowadays! Now I’m too old!
I’m turned twenty! But, oh! as a girl how I looked
For a prince to come wooing, and clothe me in silk;
Jewels fine as the crown on our Lady! A coach,
Horses white as your linen, to carry me off
To a castle with servants to wait on me!... Well,
I must go get my good man his supper. All day
He’s been carting manure!
[_Moves as if to go._]
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
Ha, ha, ha! And those dreams?
+The Mother.+
I pass on
To my baby!
[_She talks to the infant. From the left enter the_ +Husband+
_and_ +Wife+, _with pitchfork and wheelbarrow, gathering
potatoes._]
+The Wife.+
Well, well! How she grows! Healthy, too!
+The Mother.+
Aye. I’m hoping to keep her. The others--
+The Wife.+
[_Sympathetically._]
I know.
So with mine. The Lord gives and the Lord takes away!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_Folding linen._]
He takes more in proportion than gives!
+The Others.+
[_Shocked, exclaim._]
Oh, Louise!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
But it’s true, as we country-folk know. He takes youth,
Health, and beauty, and hope. And he gives in return...?
Why, not even a grave!
+The Man.+
Aye; there’s something in that!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_Bitterly, working herself up._]
To the earth are we born, and the earth all our days
Must we till for a meagre subsistence, backs bent,
And our faces, like beasts’, to the earth! Look at you.
[_To the_ +Man+.]
Like some crooked old tree! Do you think like a man?
Do you feel like a man among men? Why, this hoe
Is as human as you, you old stick-i’-the-mud!
+The Woman.+
Oh, Louise!
+The Man.+
[_Nettled._]
I don’t know about that!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
Well, I do!
[_She goes over to the_ +Mother+.]
As for you with your prince of a dung-heap....
+The Mother.+
Hold your tongue! Jealous cat, you!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
Me jealous! Of you!
[_Laughing scornfully._]
+The Husband.+
[_Interposing, pacifically._]
Come, now, lasses! Don’t quarrel!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_Snapping her fingers at him._]
Potato-face!
+The Others.+
[_Some shocked, the rest amused._]
Oh!
+The Wife.+
[_Infuriated._]
Don’t you dare call my man such a name!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_With sudden tenderness, strokes the_ +Wife’s+ _cheek._]
Poor Adèle!
Scarce nineteen, and all furrowed and brown, like the earth!
But you never rebel!
+The Wife.+
[_Mollified._]
I rebel? There are times
When life’s hard--
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
Is there ever a time when it’s not?
+The Wife.+
But I always have Jean!
+The Husband.+
[_Indicating the_ +Wife+.]
Jean has her!
+The Man.+
Aye, that’s true!
+The Voice of Millet.+
[_Singing, on the right._]
Oh, Normandy! My Normandy! Again to see my Normandy!
[_All turn enquiringly._]
+The Youth.+
[_Shading his eyes, the better to see._]
’Tis our neighbor, the artist, Millet. He’s been off
Selling pictures in Paris. He must have come back
By the Fontainebleau stage!
[_The snatch of song again is heard, receding._]
From his song he’s had luck
With his market!
+The Older Washerwoman.+
It’s time. Months behind with his rent!
And their bills...! Butcher, baker, unpaid for--how long?
Not a shop in Chailly gives them credit!
+The Wife.+
Poor souls!
With nine children to feed!
+The Mother.+
And his wife--she’s not strong.
+The Older Washerwoman.+
Bailiffs soon will be put in possession, they say,
Of the house, unless money’s forthcoming!
+The Wife.+
Poor souls!
With nine children!
+The Older Washerwoman.+
You can’t blame the tradesmen! Monsieur
Is an artist, you see!
+The Wife.+
He means well, all the same.
+The Husband.+
[_Nods assent, while continuing his work._]
A good fellow!
+The Older Washerwoman.+
He’s lazy. I’ve seen him, myself,
By the hour, lying back on the heather!
+The Man.+
Well, well!
+The Mother.+
On the heather? His wife is too patient! If I
Caught my man...!
+The Youth.+
He has told me--he’s watching the sky!
[_All exclaim, derisively._]
+The Man.+
[_Rather apologetically for himself as well as for_ +Millet+.]
Well, I do that myself, now and then, just to see
If ’twill rain.
+The Older Washerwoman.+
He’s no farmer, or peasant, like us!
What’s the weather to him!
+The Youth.+
It’s the forms of the clouds
That he studies. He’s told me! the colors that change
With the day. Oh, it’s just like a poem, the way
That he tells it!... The trees of the forest, he says,
Speak a language their own! And the birds, and the wind--!
+The Older Washerwoman.+
He’s a lazybones!
+The Man.+
Hm! Now I doubt if he’s right!
[_Taps forehead significantly._]
+The Husband.+
All the same, a good neighbor, kind heart, at a time
When there’s trouble!
+The Wife.+
But--nine! And he looks at the sky!
+The Youth.+
But he works! Oh, I don’t mean just painting! He digs
In his garden of mornings! His roses are fine,
And his cabbages ... well, you can’t beat them!
+The Wife.+
Poor soul!
He has need, with nine children!
[_The voice of_ +Millet+ _again is heard in a snatch of song._]
+The Youth.+
Just hark how he sings!
He’s so glad to be home!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
Fancy. Glad to be here!
Fancy! Glad to leave Paris! An artist at that!
+The Older Washerwoman.+
[_Helping the other to fold a sheet._]
Oh, not really an artist! Why, look what he paints!
Nothing nice: parks with fountains and ladies with fans,
And guitar-playing lovers! Such ev’ryday things.
Just a field, such as this. Why, you almost can smell
The potatoes, the newly-turned earth, or the wheat
As the harvesters bind it, the linen we wash,
In those pictures of his!
+The Man.+
Aye! There is something in that!
+The Older Washerwoman.+
And his people, just peasants like us!
+The Man.+
Aye; that’s true.
And so ugly!
[_Naïvely._]
Why, he’s painted me!
[_Unconsciously falling again into the picture-position. The
others laugh at him._]
+The Husband.+
[_With a slight, reminiscent grievance._]
Aye. Myself and the wife here have stood for him. Decked
In our Sundayfied best, for the Barbizon fête,
There are worse-looking couples! But Monsieur Millet
Is for painting us just as you see!
+The Wife.+
But, poor soul!
He means well!
+The Youth.+
But that’s beauty! He told me. Ourselves
As God meant, tillers, toilers of earth, with God’s sky
Overhead! And I feel, when, in sowing the seed,
With a prayer the first handful I toss in the form
Of a cross--
[_Instinctively acting it out he falls naturally into the
position of “The Sower.”_]
Then I feel--
[_He breaks off, smitten with self-consciousness._]
I lack words, but I feel
What our neighbor puts into his pictures!
+The Man.+
[_Not knowing what else to say, says_]
Well, well!
+The Mother.+
[_Sitting on the edge of the_ +Husband’s+ _wheelbarrow._]
When I wanted to put on my earrings at least--
Who’s to know that one has them if not! Said Monsieur,
Mother-love was adornment enough! Mother-love
Makes the face of a woman divine, be she queen,
Or just peasant, like me!
[_Cuddling her infant._]
+Several.+
Well, there’s something in that!
+The Wife.+
[_With some faint apprehension of the finer thing._]
And I, too, when it’s cool and the evening is still,
The potatoes all stacked, from yon church at Chailly,
When the bell rings the Angelus--
[_Breaks off, lacking expression, and picks up another potato._]
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_Has listened attentively. She now breaks into mocking
laughter._]
Clots of earth! Clots of earth, clots of earth, ev’ry one!
+The Older Washerwoman.+
[_Resentfully._]
Clot yourself! Aren’t you one of us born?
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
Being born
Isn’t all of one’s life! Soon this Barbizon soil
I shake off, change sabots for silk stockings, and shoes
With high heels like a lady’s! You’ll see!
+The Others.+
And what then?
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_Balancing her basket on her head._]
And then ... Paris!
+The Others.+
Louise!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
And then, Paris!
[_Going._]
+The Older Washerwoman.+
[_Following her._]
Louise!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_Is heard, laughing, and repeating._]
Paris!
+The Man.+
[_Preparing to go._]
You can’t blame her. Life’s hard, as she said!
+The Wife.+
Oh, not blame!
Shall one blame what the good God permits? But at least
One can pity and pray!
[_Crossing herself._]
+The Mother.+
[_Going._]
Well, my man will be in
From the field
[_The_ +Youth+ _drifts away, whistling_ +Millet’s+ _song._]
+The Husband.+
[_Shaking down the potatoes in their sack._]
Life is hard, as she said. But at least--
+The Wife.+
[_Completing his thought._]
Aye. At least,
God be thanked! we’re together!
[_Millet’s voice again is heard softly in a snatch of song._]
+The Husband.+
[_Recurring to a former train of thought._]
But as for him yon
And his pictures...!
[_Shakes his head, resigning the subject._]
+The Wife.+
Poor soul! He means well!
[_The daylight, bright at first, gradually has declined to
twilight. As_ +Husband+ _and_ +Wife+, _their work ended,
prepare to leave the field, from the tower of Chailly church
rings the evening Angelus. Setting down barrow, planting
pitchfork, the two bow their heads in prayer, repeating_]:
“The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary,
And she conceived of the Holy Ghost.
Hail, Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee....”
[_The bell grows fainter and fainter. The words die on the lips
of the man and woman. The figures become motionless, as if the
scene were being translated from the realm of reality to that
of fantasy. Then the curtains are drawn._]
Transcriber’s Notes
For possible printer’s errors in spelling, punctuation, etc., only the
changes listed below were made.
_Italics_ and +Small Caps+ were formatted as so.
Stage directions were generally silently moved outside of dialogue.
When at the beginning of dialogue, they were moved above. When at the
end of dialogue, they were moved below. When in the middle of dialogue,
the line was split--with added indentation--and the directions were
moved to the middle.
The alignment of stage directions was silently standardized. For
reference, the first stage direction immediately after a character’s
name was commonly centered below the name in the print.
Indented dialogue, when apparently part of a metrical line divided
among different speakers, was silently indented to align with the other
sections of the metrical line. Unindented dialogue, if likely part of a
metrical line, was only indented when listed below.
Inconsistencies in the speaker’s name were generally retained. See “A
SALON CARRÉ FANTASY” for examples such as “+Young Man with Glove.+” and
“+Young Man with a Glove.+”.
On page 4 on the title page, “Cranfeld: a Play” appears to refer to the
previously mentioned “Cranford: A Play”. This inconsistency was
retained.
On page 11 in the stage direction that begins with “After a slight
pause she approaches”, “Da Vinci” was formatted as Small Caps (Small
Caps’d in later instances) for standardization.
On page 12 in the stage direction that begins with “The lady nods, as
if to say”, “Da Vinci” was Small Caps’d.
On page 14, the stage direction “Bows affirmatively.” was enclosed with
brackets.
On page 24, the unindented line “Well, it’s here!” was indented.
On the same page, the unindented line “Why, Portrait of a Man!” was
indented.
On page 27, the unindented line “But that poor girl in trouble!” was
indented.
On the same page in the stage direction that begins with “Bumping
into”, “Gardien” was Small Caps’d.
On page 31 in the stage direction that goes “The Woman at her Toilet
runs away, right.”, “Woman at her Toilet” was Small Caps’d.
On page 32 in the stage direction that begins with “Coming again
toward”, “Young Man” was Small Caps’d.
On page 34 the unindented line “True. Still I think he should withdraw”
was indented.
On page 35 in the stage direction that goes “To the Young Man”, “Young
Man” was Small Caps’d.
On page 36, the unindented line “Aye. And for another!” was indented.
On the same page, the unindented line “Dio mio! Dare I hope...?” was
indented.
On page 42, the unindented line “Then, what woman meant you now?” was
indented.
On page 43, the unindented line “Oh, worthy of our School!” was
indented.
On page 54, the unindented line “Standing here, shall I be drawn” was
indented.
On page 57 immediately before the entrance of the Husband and Wife, the
unindented line “Hush!” was indented.
On page 59 in the stage direction that goes “Leading the Wife away to
the right.”, “Wife” was Small Caps’d.
On page 61, the unindented line “This grows monotonous!” was indented.
On page 69, the unindented line “’Tisn’t really good!” was indented.
On the same page in the stage direction that goes “Leading Laura to the
right.”, “Laura” was Small Caps’d.
On page 73 on the title page of His Mother’s Face, “Champtêre” was
corrected to “Champêtre”
On page 75 in the paragraph that begins with “The curtains, parting,
disclose”, “Watteau” was Small Caps’d.
On page 83, a closing bracket was removed from the end of the paragraph
that ends with “addressing her discourse to him.”.
On page 91 in the stage-setting paragraph, the section “always behind
the frame, reaches” was italicized to match the formatting of the
paragraph.
On page 94, the unindented line “First at counting-out suppose we
play!” was indented.
On the same page, the stage direction “The curtains close.” was
italicized.
On page 97, the scene description “A hall in a house at Tilsit.” was
italicized.
On page 109 in the stage direction that goes “Touching a fold of the
Queen’s dress.”, “Queen’s” was Small Caps’d.
On page 115, the unindented line “You devil, you!” was indented.
On page 116 immediately after the stage direction “Answering, calls.”,
the unindented line “Coming, dears!” was indented.
On page 119 in the sentence “The Mother stands”, “Mother” was Small
Caps’d.
On page 123 in the stage direction that goes “She goes over to the
Mother.”, “Mother” was Small Caps’d.
On the same page, the unindented line “Me jealous! Of you!” was
indented.
On page 124, the unindented line “Is there ever a time when it’s not?”
was indented.
On page 125, the unindented line “It’s time. Months behind with his
rent!” was indented.
On page 126, the unindented line “He has told me--he’s watching the
sky!” was indented.
On the same page in the stage direction that goes “Rather
apologetically for himself as well as for Millet.”, “Millet” was Small
Caps’d.
On page 132 in the stage direction that includes “whistling Millet’s
song”, “Millet’s” was Small Caps’d.
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