Chapter V: Part 5

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

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

DOSSONVILLE [_aghast_]. It looks like--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VALSIN. That room is empty.

DOSSONVILLE. What!

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

DOSSONVILLE. Then you recog--

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

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

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

[THE CURTAIN.]

THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE

_A DRAMATIC FANTASY IN ONE ACT_

By ERNEST DOWSON

_Performance Free_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PIERROT OF THE MINUTE

CHARACTERS

A MOON MAIDEN.
PIERROT.

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

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

PIERROT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[_Reads._]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[_Sleeps._]

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

THE LADY.

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

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

PIERROT [_murmuring_].

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

THE LADY.

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

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

PIERROT [_rubbing his eyes_].

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

[_Rises slowly to his feet._]

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

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

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

Then have I ventured and encountered Love?

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY [_unveiling_].

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

Didst thou not read the warning on the scroll?

[_Picks up the parchment._]

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

[_Reads._]

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

PIERROT [_laughing recklessly_].

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

THE LADY.

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

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

PIERROT.

Whence came, dear Queen, such magic melody?

THE LADY.

Pan made it long ago in Arcady.

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

I am to each the face of his desire.

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

Would it be impudent to beg a kiss?

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

Dost thou persist?

PIERROT.
I do entreat this boon!

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

THE LADY.

Why art thou pale, fond lover of the moon?

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

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

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

[_Takes her hand._]

THE LADY.
Refrain, refrain!

PIERROT [_with passion_].

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

[_Kisses her hand._]

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

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

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

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

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

Why art thou sad?

PIERROT.
I dare not tell.

THE LADY [_caressingly_].
Come, say!

PIERROT.

Is love all schooling, with no time to play?

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

That is too hard!

THE LADY.
For mortal's play.

PIERROT.
What then?

THE LADY.

Teach me some pastime from the world of men.

PIERROT.

I have it, maiden.

THE LADY.
Can it soon be taught?

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.
But, prithee, not so near.

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.
Now is this to the point?

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

Here is my hand.

PIERROT.
I cover it with mine.

THE LADY.

What must I next?

[_They play._]

PIERROT.
Withdraw.

THE LADY.
It goes too fast.

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

PIERROT [_laughing_].

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

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT [_sitting down sulkily_].

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

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

THE LADY.

What is this petulance?

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

THE LADY.
Nay! I love thee well!

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.
That bound not thee!

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY [_seating herself_].

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

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

[_She sighs._]

PIERROT.
Why art sad, sweet Moon?

[_Laughs._]

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

I am thy servitor.

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

PIERROT.

I will explain.

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

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

Society?

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

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

THE LADY.

What am I, then?

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

[_Passes her._]

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

THE LADY.

Cool is the night, what needs it?

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

THE LADY [_taking a lily_].

Here is my fan!

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

THE LADY.

What do we next?

PIERROT.
We talk!

THE LADY.
But what about?

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.
A pretty face!

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

Her blush is charming; would it were her own!

PIERROT.

Madame is merciless!

THE LADY.
Is that the tone?

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

Thou speakest glibly: 'tis not of thine age.

PIERROT.

I listened much, as best becomes a page.

THE LADY.

I like thy Court but little ----

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

THE LADY.

Nay, that I know not!

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

THE LADY.

Thou art a child: thy malice is a game.

PIERROT.

A most sweet pastime--scandal is its name.

THE LADY.

Enough, it wearies me.

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

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

THE LADY.

What wouldst thou now?

PIERROT.
Ah, prithee, what, save thee!

THE LADY.

Was this included in thy comedy?

PIERROT.

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

THE LADY.

Hush! I beseech thee, even now night dies.

PIERROT.

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

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

THE LADY.

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

PIERROT.

The birds awake! It is the voice of day!

THE LADY.

Farewell, dear youth! They summon me away.

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

THE LADY [_bending over him_].

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

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

THE MOON MAIDEN'S SONG

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

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

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

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

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

_EPILOGUE_

[_Spoken in the character of PIERROT_]

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

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

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

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

THE MAKER OF DREAMS[28]

_A FANTASY IN ONE ACT_

By OLIPHANT DOWN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE MAKER OF DREAMS

CHARACTERS

PIERROT.
PIERRETTE.
THE MANUFACTURER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

PIERROT [_singing:_]

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

Isn't tea ready yet?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PIERROT. I was thinking.

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

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

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

PIERROT. You're always cheerful.

PIERRETTE. I try to be happy.

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

PIERRETTE. Tea all right?

PIERROT. Middling.

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

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

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

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

PIERRETTE. Whereabouts?

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

PIERRETTE. I didn't see her.

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

PIERRETTE. She was made up!

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

PIERRETTE. Perhaps I _did_ see her.

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

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

PIERROT [_singing abstractedly_].

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

PIERRETTE. Did you see that girl after the show?

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

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

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

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

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

PIERRETTE. Out with it, then.

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

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

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

That you are a man."

Of course that's only a rough idea.

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

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

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

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

PIERRETTE. Just now you said I was always cheerful.

PIERROT. There you are; girding at me again.

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

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

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

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

PIERRETTE. No, I try to be practical.

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

PIERRETTE [_speaking very fervently_].

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PIERRETTE. Come in. [_The door swings slowly open, as though of its own accord, and without, on the threshold, is seen THE MANUFACTURER, standing full in the moonlight. He is a curious, though kindly-looking, old man, and yet, with all his years, he does not appear to be the least infirm. He is the sort of person that children take to instinctively. He wears a quaintly cut, bottle-green coat, with silver buttons and large side-pockets, which almost hide his knee-breeches. His shoes have large buckles and red heels. He is exceedingly unlike a prosperous manufacturer, and, but for the absence of a violin, would be mistaken for a village fiddler. Without a word he advances into the room, and, again of its own accord, the door closes noiselessly behind him._]

PIERRETTE [_jumping up and moving towards him_]. Oh, I'm so sorry. I ought to have opened the door when you knocked.

MANUFACTURER. That's all right. I'm used to opening doors. And yours opens much more easily than some I come across. Would you believe it, some people positively nail their doors up, and it's no good knocking. But there, you're wondering who I am.

PIERRETTE. I was wondering if you were hungry.

MANUFACTURER. Ah, a woman's instinct. But, thank you, no. I am a small eater; I might say a very small eater. A smile or a squeeze of the hand keeps me going admirably.

PIERRETTE. At least you'll sit down and make yourself at home.

MANUFACTURER [_moving to the settle_]. Well, I have a habit of making myself at home everywhere. In fact, most people think you can't make a _home_ without _me_. May I put my feet on the fender? It's an old habit of mine. I always do it.

PIERRETTE. They say round here:

"Without feet on the fender
Love is but slender."

MANUFACTURER. Quite right. It is the whole secret of the domestic fireside. Pierrette, you have been crying.

PIERRETTE. I believe I have.

MANUFACTURER. Bless you, I know all about it. It's Pierrot. And so you're in love with him, and he doesn't care a little bit about you, eh? What a strange old world it is! And you cry your eyes out over him.

PIERRETTE. Oh, no, I don't often cry. But to-night he seemed more grumpy than usual, and I tried so hard to cheer him up.

MANUFACTURER. Grumpy, is he?

PIERRETTE. He doesn't mean it, though. It's the cold weather, and the show hasn't been paying so well lately. Pierrot wants to write an article about us for the local paper by way of an advertisement. He thinks the editor may print it if he gives him free passes for his family.

MANUFACTURER. Do you think Pierrot is worth your tears?

PIERRETTE. Oh, yes!

MANUFACTURER. You know, tears are not to be wasted. We only have a certain amount of them given to us just for keeping the heart moist. And when we've used them all up and haven't any more, the heart dries up, too.

PIERRETTE. Pierrot is a splendid fellow. You don't know him as well as I do. It's true he's always discontented, but it's only because he's not in love with anyone. You know, love does make a tremendous difference in a man.

MANUFACTURER. That's true enough. And has it made a difference in you?

PIERRETTE. Oh, yes! I put Pierrot's slippers down to warm, and I make tea for him, and all the time I'm happy because I'm doing something for him. If I weren't in love, I should find it a drudgery.

MANUFACTURER. Are you sure it's real love?

PIERRETTE. Why, yes!

MANUFACTURER. Every time you think of Pierrot, do you hear the patter of little bare feet? And every time he speaks, do you feel little chubby hands on your breast and face?

PIERRETTE [_fervently_]. Yes! Oh, yes! That's just it!

MANUFACTURER. You've got it right enough. But why is it that Pierrot can wake up all this poetry in you?

PIERRETTE. Because--oh, because he's just Pierrot.

MANUFACTURER. "Because he's just Pierrot." The same old reason.

PIERRETTE. Of course, he is a bit dreamy. But that's his soul. I am sure he could do great things if he tried. And have you noticed his smile? Isn't it lovely! Sometimes, when he's not looking, I want ever so much to try it on, just to see how I should look in it. [_Pensively._] But I wish he'd smile at me a little more often, instead of at others.

MANUFACTURER. Ho! So he smiles at others, does he?

PIERRETTE. Hardly a day goes by but there's some fine lady at the show. There was one there to-day, a tall girl with red cheeks. He is gone to look for her now. And it is not their faults. The poor things can't help being in love with him. [_Proudly._] I believe everyone is in love with Pierrot.

MANUFACTURER. But supposing one of these fine ladies were to marry him?

PIERRETTE. Oh, they'd never do that. A fine lady would never marry a poor singer. If Pierrot were to get married, I think I should just ... fade away.... Oh, but I don't know why I talk to you like this. I feel as if I had known you for a long, long time. [_THE MANUFACTURER rises from the settle and moves across to PIERRETTE, who is now folding up the white table-cloth._]