Chapter VIII: Part 8

MRS. LEZINSKY. Listen, Solly--I didn't mean to keep that money. As there's a God of Israel I didn't mean to keep it. I should use it--just this afternoon--to buy the baby-carriage--and when the customers pay us--put the money back before he misses it.

LEZINSKY. Meshugge! So much money isn't coming to us. And why should you use Mr. Rosenbloom's money? Why shouldn't you take it from the money you had?

MRS. LEZINSKY. How could I use that money? Don't you pay the rent this afternoon to the agent? And they shut off the gas when we don't settle: by five o'clock they shut it off. And Mrs. Rooney moves away--[_Breaks into sobbing._] and so--I thought I lose the baby-carriage.

LEZINSKY. Gietel--Gietel--you are a----. I can't speak the word, Gietel--It sticks in my throat.

MRS. LEZINSKY. No, no, Solly, you shouldn't speak that word. If I took it to keep it maybe. But--no. I couldn't do such a thing. Not for a million baby-carriages could I do such a thing. Not for anything could I keep what is not my own--I tell you, Solly.... [_Pleadingly._] But just to keep it for a few hours, maybe? Why should a man with so much money miss a little for a few hours? Then Mr. Rosenbloom--he comes back in. I change my mind, but the door opens and it is too late already. Solly leben, did I keep it back--the five dollars? I ask you, Solly? Didn't I give it all into your hand? I ask you that, Solly?

LEZINSKY. Woe is me!--The mother of my children--and she takes what is not her own!

MRS. LEZINSKY. So much money and not one dollar to pay Mrs. Rooney for the baby-carriage! You see, Solly--always fine-dressed people around--the mamas and the little children all dressed fine--with white socks and white shoes. And our David--and our Julius--and our Benny, even--what _must_ they wear? Old clothes! Yes. And to save the money they should wear black stockings--and old shoes. Never no pretty things! And it's all the time work--work--work and we never have nothing--no new clothes--no pretty things--[_She breaks down completely._]

LEZINSKY. So our children grow up with the fear of God in their hearts--

MRS. LEZINSKY. What should little children know of all this pious business when they must play alone on the stoop with Izzi Klein together. For why? The Cohen children shouldn't play with our David and Julius and Benny. They make a snout at them. The Cohens dress them up stylish and they should play with Gentile children. They push my Benny in the stomach when he eats an ice-cream cone, and they say--regular--to my David and Julius: "Sheeny"--the same as if they wasn't Jewish, too.... Just for once I wanted something lovely and stylish--like other people have.... Then she asks--only five dollars for the baby-carriage--and--[_Choking back a sob._] Mrs. Cohen--now, Mrs. Cohen--she gets it. She gets it and I must want--and want. First David--then Julius--then comes Benny--and now the little sister--and never once a baby-carriage! [_Sobs._]

LEZINSKY. We should raise our children to be pious.

[_There is the sound of trundling wheels. Mrs. Lezinsky looks out.
The carriage is gone from the window._]

MRS. LEZINSKY [_as the door opens and Mrs. Rooney appears wheeling the carriage in, low voices_]. Mrs. Rooney, Solly; she comes now to say good-by. [_Mops her eyes, trys to put on a casual look._]

MRS. ROONEY. Now there you are, Mrs. Lezinsky, blanket and all.

[_Lezinsky works feverishly without lifting his eyes._]

MRS. LEZINSKY [_low appealing voice_]. You should look at it once, Solly. [_Lezinsky stops for a moment and lets his eyes rest on the baby-carriage._] Ain't it a beautiful, stylish baby-carriage, Solly?

MRS. ROONEY. There it is now and I'll be running on for Mrs. Klein's Anna's keeping Eileen and I have her to dress before her pa comes home. He's getting off earlier for the moving.

MRS. LEZINSKY. The little Eileen! Why didn't you bring her along with you, Mrs. Rooney?

MRS. ROONEY. She went to sleep on me or I would that.

MRS. LEZINSKY [_her eyes on her husband's face in mute appeal_]. O, Mrs. Rooney--so little business and so much expense--and my Solly has an operation for his sick eyes soon--it breaks my heart--but--Mrs. Cohen [_Shaking voice._] _she_ gets this lovely baby carriage.

MRS. ROONEY [_taking in the situation_]. Mrs. Cohen--_she_ gets it! Does she now? Not if my name's Rooney does Mrs. Cohen get it and she only after offering to raise me a dollar to make sure of the baby-carriage, knowing your sore need of the same. Am I a lady or not, Mr. Lezinsky? 'Tis that I want to know. "I'll give you six dollars for it," says she to me. Says I to her: "Mrs. Cohen--when I spoke to you of that baby-carriage," says I, "it clean slipped me mind that I promised the same to Mrs. Lezinsky. I promised it to Mrs. Lezinsky long ago," says I--and so I did, though I forget to make mention of it to you at the time, Mrs. Lezinsky. So here it is and here it stays or my name's not Rooney.

MRS. LEZINSKY. But so much money we haven't got now--not even for the operation, Mrs. Rooney.... [_Soft pleading undertone to her husband._] Only five dollars, Solly!... [_Sinking her voice still lower._] Anyhow--I don't deserve no baby-carriage--maybe--[_Lezinsky makes no sign._]

MRS. LEZINSKY. If we could possibly pay for that baby-carriage we keep it, Mrs. Rooney--[_Turns back to her husband, voice shakes._] for our Benny and the little sister--yes, Solly? [_She waits and watches him with mute appeal, then, forcing herself to speak casually._] But it couldn't be done, Mrs. Rooney--[_Bravely._] Solly should have every dollar for that operation.

MRS. ROONEY. There now--no more about it! 'Tis your own from this day out.... You can take your own time to be paying for it.... I'll be wanting some work done anyhow--when the cold weather sets in.

MRS. LEZINSKY [_between tears and laughter_]. Solly!... Ain't it wonderful? Mrs. Rooney--she trusts us--for this beautiful baby-carriage!... O, Mrs. Rooney!

MRS. ROONEY. 'Tis little enough to be doing for my godchild that could be was she born a Catholic now.

MRS. LEZINSKY. O, Mrs. Rooney, dear Mrs. Rooney! Solly, Solly, we should have a baby-carriage at last! At last we should have a baby-carriage. O, Solly, Solly, what a mitzvah! Yes, Solly? [_As Mrs. Rooney starts to leave._] But your blanket--Mrs. Rooney--

MRS. ROONEY. I'll be throwing that in--for good luck.

MRS. LEZINSKY. It breaks my heart you move away, Mrs. Rooney.

MRS. ROONEY. See you soon. [_Opens the door; looks up the street as she stands in the doorway._] Here's the kids coming.

MRS. LEZINSKY. My David and Julius and Benny, they could die for joy to wheel their little sister in this baby-carriage.

MRS. ROONEY. Well, good luck--the both of you--and good-by! [_With a sense of pride in the greater prosperity which the new address means to her._] Three thousand and thirty-seven Jerome Avenue--don't forget!

MRS. LEZINSKY [_bending over the baby-carriage_]. Good-by, Mrs. Rooney--next time you come, maybe you see her in the baby-carriage. [_Soothing the blanket_]--the little Eileen! [_Turns to her husband as the door closes._] Yes, Solly?

[_They look at each other in silence for a moment.--She puts out
her hands imploringly. His face softens; he lays his hand on her
shoulder as the three little boys, David, Julius and Benny pass by
the window. As they come into the shop_

_the Curtain Falls._]

THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE

A DRAMATIC FANTASY

BY ERNEST DOWSON

CHARACTERS

A MOON MAIDEN.
PIERROT.

THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE

A DRAMATIC FANTASY BY ERNEST DOWSON

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

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

PIERROT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[_Reads._]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[_Sleeps._]

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

THE LADY.

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

[_She stoops over him; Pierrot stirs in his sleep._]

PIERROT [_murmuring_].

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

THE LADY.

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

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

PIERROT [_rubbing his eyes_].

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

[_Rises slowly to his feet._]

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

THE LADY [_coming forward, but veiled_].

Love!

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

Then have I ventured and encountered Love?

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY [_unveiling_].

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

Didst thou not read the warning on the scroll?

[_Picks up the parchment._]

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

[_Reads._]

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

PIERROT [_laughing recklessly_].

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

THE LADY.

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

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

PIERROT.

Whence came, dear Queen, such magic melody?

THE LADY.

Pan made it long ago in Arcady.

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

I am to each the face of his desire.

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

Would it be impudent to beg a kiss?

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

Dost thou persist?

PIERROT.

I do entreat this boon!

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

THE LADY.

Why art thou pale, fond lover of the moon?

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

[_The Lady sits upon a step of the temple, and Pierrot leans upon
his elbow at her feet, regarding her._]

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

[_Takes her hand._]

THE LADY.

Refrain, refrain!

PIERROT [_with passion_].

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

[_Kisses her hand._]

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

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

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

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

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

Why art thou sad?

PIERROT.

I dare not tell.

THE LADY [_caressingly_].

Come, say!

PIERROT.

Is love all schooling, with no time to play?

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

That is too hard!

THE LADY.

For mortal's play.

PIERROT.

What then?

THE LADY.

Teach me some pastime from the world of men.

PIERROT.

I have it, maiden.

THE LADY.

Can it soon be taught?

PIERROT.

A single game, I learnt it at the Court.

THE LADY.

But, prithee, not so near.

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

Now is this to the point?

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

Here is my hand.

PIERROT.

I cover it with mine.

THE LADY.

What must I next?

[_They play._]

PIERROT.

Withdraw.

THE LADY.

It goes too fast.

[_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 dispatch.

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 dimy, 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 wears 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 the 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 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 grows 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 gayly 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 SUBJECTION OF KEZIA

A PLAY

BY MRS. HAVELOCK ELLIS

Copyright, 1915, by Edith M. O. Ellis.
As Author and Proprietor.
All rights reserved.

PERSONS IN THE PLAY.

JOE PENGILLY.
KEZIA [_Joe Pengilly's wife_].
MATTHEW TREVASKIS [_a friend of the Pengillys_].

THE SCENE _is laid in a Cornish village_.
TIME: _The Present_.

_The whole action of the play takes place between seven o'clock
and nine o'clock on a Saturday evening._

Reprinted from "Love in Danger" by permission of and special
arrangements with, Houghton, Mifflin Company.

The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are
strictly reserved by the author, to whose dramatic agent, Miss
Galbraith Welch, 101 Park Avenue, New York, applications for
permission to produce it should be made.

THE SUBJECTION OF KEZIA

A PLAY BY MRS. HAVELOCK ELLIS

[SCENE: _Interior of a cottage kitchen in a Cornish fishing
village. The walls are distempered a pale blue; the ceiling wooden
and beamed. Middle of back wall, a kitchen-range where fire is
burning. At back R. is a door opening into an inner room. At back
L. small cupboards. At side L. is a large kitchen-table laid for
tea under a window facing sea. The floor is red brick. On
mantelpiece, white china dogs, clock, copper candlesticks,
tea-caddy, stirrups, and bits. On walls, family framed
photographs, religious framed pictures. Below table is a door
leading into street. Behind door, roller with hanging towel. Usual
kitchen paraphernalia, chairs, pots and pans, etc. Cat basket with
straw to R. of range. At back R. is a wooden settle with good
upright sides. Joe Pengilly is wiping his face and hands, having
just come in from the pump outside. He sighs and glances uneasily
at Kezia, who has her back turned to him, and is frying mackerel
at the stove. He rolls down his sleeves slowly and watches his
wife uneasily. He is dressed as a laborer--corduroy trousers,
hob-nailed boots, blue-and-white shirt, open throat. He takes down
a sleeved waistcoat from a peg behind the door and puts it on. He
is a slight man with thin light hair, gentle in manner, but with a
strong keen face. Kezia is a little taller than Joe--slender and
graceful, with a clean cotton dress fitting well to her figure; a
clean apron, well-dressed and tidy hair; good-looking and
energetic. Joe smiles to himself and crosses his arms and shuffles
his feet as he looks towards Kezia. Kezia turns round suddenly and
looks at him sideways, the cooking-fork in one hand and the handle
of the frying-pan in the other. Joe sits down at table._]

KEZIA. Why didn't thee speak?

JOE. Nothin' to say, my dear.

KEZIA. Thee's not much company, for sure.

[_Joe laughs and leans his arms on the table as he looks at Kezia;
his face beams as he watches her landing the fish from the
bubbling fat to a dish. She puts some on a plate in front of Joe,
and pours out tea in a large cup. She suddenly looks at him as he
begins picking off the tail of his mackerel with his fingers._]

KEZIA. Cain't thee answer?

JOE. To what?

KEZIA [_snappily_]. Why, to me, of course.

[_Joe takes a long drink of tea and gazes at her over his cup._]

JOE. Thee'rt a great beauty, Kezia, sure enough!

[_He puts the cup down and goes on picking his fish with the
fingers of one hand, while the other holds bread and butter._]

KEZIA. There you are again; always either grumblin' or jeerin' at me.

JOE. I'm not doin' neither, woman. I'm tryin' for to make up for thrawtin' of you this mornin' over they soaked crusties as I gave the cat and ruined the nice clean floor.

KEZIA. Now [_angrily_], just when I were forgettin' all about it, of course you must bring it all up again, and you're tryin' now [_pointing at the fish_] all thee knows how, to make the tablecloth like a dish-clout with thy great greasy fingers!

[_Joe licks his fingers, one by one, and wipes them on his trousers,
as he smiles into her cross face._]

KEZIA. Gracious! [_whimpering_] that's thee all over. Thee gives up one dirty trick for another. I believe you only married me to clean and tidy after you.

[_Joe laughs heartily and looks up at her._]

JOE. Heart alive! I married you because you are the only woman I've ever met in my life I could never weary of, not even if you tormented me night and day. Love of 'e, my dear, seemly, makes a real fool of me most of my time.

[_His face becomes very grave, and Kezia's brow clears as she sits
down and begins to eat._]

KEZIA. You was always one for pretty talk, Joe, but you're not a bit what you were i' deeds lately.

[_Joe hands his cup for more tea._]

JOE. 'Cause you snap me up so.

KEZIA. There you are again, tryin' to pick a quarrel.

[_Joe pulls his chair away from the table and drags it nearer the
grate. He takes his pipe from his pocket and blows into it._]

KEZIA. Now, Joe, you know I cain't abide that 'baccy smell: it gives me a headache.

JOE. It gives me a headache to do without 'baccy.

[_Joe polishes his pipe-bowl on his sleeve, puts the stem in his
mouth, and takes out some shag. Kezia watches him as she removes
the tea-things. Joe watches her out of the corner of his eye as he
slowly fills his pipe._]

KEZIA. I'm fair wore out.

[_Joe gets up, puts his pipe on the mantelpiece and his knife and
shag in his pocket, and advances towards Kezia. He puts his hands
on her shoulders and looks in her eyes._]

JOE. Kiss us, old girl!

KEZIA. Don't be so silly. I don't feel like it at all, and I want to be with mother again.

JOE. And married only two years!

KEZIA. It seems like six to me.

JOE. What ails thee, lass?

KEZIA. Don't keep allus askin' questions and bein' so quarrelsome; I'm mazed at the sight of 'e, sure enough. [_She folds the cloth, pokes the fire, goes into the inner room, at back R., and comes in again with her hat and shawl on and a basket in her hand. She looks at Joe, and wipes her eyes._] You can sit there as long as you've a mind to, and smoke insides black and blue. I'm going to market a bit, and then I shall go into Blanch Sally and talk to she. She've got a bit of common sense. It's just on eight o'clock, and I shan't be more nor an hour or so.

[_Joe does not stir as Kezia goes out of the front door. Kezia
looks back to see if he'll turn, but he does not move. He gazes
into the fire with his hands clasped behind his head, and his
chair tilted back._]

JOE. I'd as soon be a dog as a man, sure enough! They can sit by the fire and be comfortable. [_He jumps up suddenly as he hears a knock at the door._] Come in!

[_The street door opens softly, and Matthew Trevaskis comes in
very quietly. He is a stout, short man with bushy hair and a
beard. He also is dressed as a laborer. He looks at Joe and gives
a low whistle._]

MATTHEW. Hallo, mate!

JOE. Oh! you?

[_Joe sits down again, points to another chair, and looks gloomily
back into the fire._]

MATTHEW. Well, brother! Thee looks as if thee'd run out o' speerits and 'baccy both.

JOE. I'm moody, like a thing.

[_Matthew laughs and draws his chair up close to Joe. He pulls
down his waistcoat, and then puts his fingers in the arm-holes, as
he contemplates Joe._]

MATTHEW. Got the hump, mate? Have 'e?

[_Joe shakes his head dolefully from side to side and sighs._]

MATTHEW. Jaw, I suppose?

[_Joe nods._]

MATTHEW. Thought so. I met the missus as I came along looking a bit teasy. Women's the devil that way; it's in their breed and bone, like fightin' in we. You began all wrong, like me, mate, and females always takes advantage of honeymoon ways, and stamps on we if we don't take 'em in hand at once.

[_Joe sighs, crosses his legs and looks at his friend._]

JOE. Drat it all! I never began no different to what I am now. I cain't make things up at all. I'm fairly mazed, never having had dealin's with no female, except mother, who was mostly ill, and never in tantrums.

[_Matthew rises, pokes Joe in the ribs and laughs._]

MATTHEW. Cheer up, brother, there's no bigger fool than a man as is sent crazy with a woman.

JOE. Women is mazy things.

MATTHEW. There's allus 'baccy for to fortify us against them, thanks be.

[_Matthew draws a little black clay pipe out of his waistcoat
pocket and points to Joe's pipe on the mantelpiece as he sits
down._]

JOE. Kezia 'ates 'baccy in the house.

MATTHEW. Smoke all the time then; it's the only way.

[_Joe smiles and smoothes his thin straight hair._]

JOE. You allus forgets I'm bent on pleasin' of Kezia.

[_Matthew stretches out his legs, and his face becomes calm and
thoughtful. He speaks very deliberately._]

MATTHEW. The more thee tries to please women, mate, the more crotchety they becomes. Within bounds I keep the peace in our place like a judge, but she've learnt, Jane Ann have, that I'll put my foot down on any out-of-the-way tantrums. Give them their heads and they'll soon have we by the heels.

JOE. Sometimes I wonder if we give 'em their heads enough. Perhaps they'd domineer less if we left 'em take their own grainy ways.

MATTHEW. You bet! If I gave in to Jane Ann entirely, where the devil do 'e think I should be at all?

[_The two men laugh together and light their pipes and smoke hard._]

JOE. I've no notion.

MATTHEW. Well! I should be like a cat out in the rain, never certain where to put my feet. As it is, as you do know, I cain't keep no dog for fear of the mess its feet 'ud make on the floor; I cain't have a magpie in a cage 'cause its seed 'ud 'appen fall on the table. I've got to walk ginger like a rooster in wet grass for fear o' disturbin' the sand on the clean floor, and I rubs my feet on the mat afore I goes in to my meals enough to split it in half. I gives in to all things 'cause I was took captive over them, in a manner of speaking, almost afore I'd finished courting, and it takes years to understand women's fancies! It's worse nor any book learnin', is understandin' women; and then, when you think you've learnt 'em off by heart, any man 'ud fail under a first standard examination on 'em. [_He gets up and shakes Joe by the shoulder._] Listen to me, mate! Bein' a real pal to thee, Joe, I'm warnin' of 'e now afore it's too late, for thee's only been wed two years, and there's time to alter things yet.

[_Joe suddenly gets up and goes to the door to see if it is
fastened, and returns to face his friend. He takes off his
long-sleeved waistcoat and throws it on a chair, after putting
down his pipe._]

JOE. Matthey!

MATTHEW. Yes?

JOE. Don't you think it is too late even now?

MATTHEW. Fur what? It's no use speakin' i' riddles, man. Trust or no trust--that's my plan. Thee's the only livin' man or woman, for the matter of that, as I've blackened Jane Ann to, and if it'll ease thy mind to tell what's worritin' of thee, you do know it's as safe as if you'd dropt your secret into the mouth of a mine shaft.

JOE. Done! Give me a hearing and let's have finished with it.

[_Matthew cleans out the bowl of his pipe and knocks the ashes out
against the grate as he waits for his friend to begin. Joe stands
first on one leg and then on the other and gives a long whistle._]

MATTHEW. Sling along. It won't get no easier wi' keeping.

[_Joe wipes his forehead with a red handkerchief, which he takes
out of his trouser pocket._]

JOE. Awkward kind o' work, pullin' your lawful wife to bits.

MATTHEW. It'll get easier as thee goes on, man. I'll help thee. What's the row to-day?

JOE. Crusties.

[_Matthew winks at Joe and lights his pipe again._]

MATTHEW. It's always some feeble thing like that as makes confusion in a house. Jane Ann began just like that. Dirty boots in the best parlor was my first offense, and it raised hell in our house for nigh on a whole day.

JOE. Well, I never! It was just the same thing in a way with me. I soaked the crusties in my tea this mornin' and threw 'em to the cat under the table, and I suppose I must 'ave put my foot in 'em, for Kezia went off like a thing gone mazy. She stormed and said--[_he sits down and wipes his forehead again with his handkerchief as he pauses_]--as she were a fool to take me, and all sorts, and then she cried fit to kill herself, and when I spoke she told me to hold my noise, and when I didn't speak she said I'd no feelin's, and was worse nor a stone. We scarcely spoke at dinner-time. She said she wished she was dead, and wanted her mother, and that, bein' a man, I was worse nor a devil; and when I kept on eatin' she said she wondered the food didn't choke me, and when I stopped eatin' she said I was never pleased wi' nothin' she'd got ready for me. My head is sore with the clang of the teasy things she drove into me, and I'm not good at replies, as you do know.

[_Joe ends in a weary voice and pokes the fire listlessly. Matthew
smokes hard and his eyes are on the ground._]

MATTHEW. Women be mysteries, and without little uns they'm worse nor monsters. A child do often alter and soften 'em, but a childless woman is as near a wolf as anything I do know.

[_Joe's elbows sink on his knees and his hands support his
woebegone face. When he next speaks he has a catch in his voice,
and he speaks quickly._]

JOE. That's it, is it?

MATTHEW. Iss, mate! That's the mischief. Unless--[_he looks up suddenly at Joe_]--perhaps she be goin' to surprise 'e by telling 'e she be going to have a little one. That would account for her bein' teasy and moody.

[_Joe laughs sorrowfully._]

JOE. Lor', I should be the first to know that, surely!

MATTHEW. Not a bit of it. Women loves secrets of that sort.

JOE. No; 'tain't that at all. I only wish it was, if what you say be true of women.

MATTHEW. True enough, my son. I did the cutest day's work in my life when I persuaded Jane Ann to take little Joe to help we. I watched the two of 'em together and found he caught his tongueing, too, from she, but it had a sort of nestle sound in it as if she were a-cuddlin' of him. She've been gentler wi' me ever since Joe come back again after his long bout at home.

[_Joe scratches his head very thoughtfully; a pause, in which he
seems to be thinking before speaking again._]

JOE. I don't know of no sister's child to take on for Kezia at all. What's the next remedy, think you?

MATTHEW. A thrashin'.

[_Joe jumps up and stares at Matthew._]

JOE. A what?

MATTHEW. Wallop her just once.

[_Matthew looks on the ground and taps it with his foot, and he
does not see that Joe is standing over him with his hands
clenched._]

JOE. Shame on thee, mate! I feel more like strikin' thee nor a female. I'm sorry I told thee, if thee can offer no more help than that. I'm not much of a chap, but I've never struck a woman yet.

MATTHEW. Strike on principle, then.

[_He still looks fixedly at the floor, and Joe stands glaring at
him._]

JOE. How?

MATTHEW. Like the Almighty strikes when He've got a lesson for we to learn, which we won't learn without strikes and tears. Nothin' is of no avail to stop His chastisement if He do think it's goin' to work out His plan for He and we, and that's what I'm wanting of you to do by your wife for her sake more than for yours. Wives must learn to submit. [_Harshly._] It's Divine Providence as 'ave ordered it, and women be miserable, like ivy and trailers of all sorts, if they've no prop to bear 'em up. Beat her once and it'll make a man of you and be a life-long warnin' to she.

JOE. But I love her, man! [_Softly._] The very thought of hurting her makes me creep.

[_Joe shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head repeatedly._]

MATTHEW. Women likes bein' hurt. It's a real fondlin' to 'em at times.

[_Joe sits down and folds his arms as he looks humbly at Matthew._]

JOE. Lor', I never heard that afore. How can you be sure of that at all?

MATTHEW. I've traveled, as you do knaw. I ain't been to Africa for nothin', mate. I've seen a deal o' things, which if I'd happened on afore I courted Jane Ann would have got me through the marriage scrimmage wi' no tiles off of my roof. That's why I'm a warnin' of you afore it's too late. Your woman be worth gettin' i' trim--[_with a sigh_]--for she's--well--she's--

[_Joe's eyes rest on his friend's face and his face suddenly
lights up with a smile._]

JOE. She's the best sort of woman a man could 'ave for a sweetheart when her moods is off, and it's only lately her 'ave altered so, and I expect it's really all my fault.

MATTHEW. Certainly it is; you've never shown master yet, and you must this very night.

JOE. [_Coughs nervously._] How?

MATTHEW. You must thrash her before it is too late. Have 'e a cane?

[_Joe jumps up, twists round his necktie, undoes it, ties it
again--marches up and down the little kitchen, and wheels round on
Matthew._]

JOE. You'm a fair brute, Matthew Trevaskis.