Chapter II: Part 2
Ah, ’tis useless lying!
I have known you to snore
After your dinner, and in church!
’Tis so!
But to the core
Fine! Never leaving foe or comrade in the lurch!
An English gentleman of a good school gone by!
I love you aye, sweetheart, despite restraint
Of framing canvas, fading paint!
And, speak! Don’t you...?
[_She holds out her hands to the_ +Gentleman+, _but, as just then
the distant sounds of dawn make themselves heard, suddenly
checks his impending advance._]
Hush, hush! That shrill cock’s crow
Says, “Peace, who sat for Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!”
[_The concluding words die on the_ +Lady’s+ _lips, as, resuming
her original attitude, she stiffens slowly again into a
portrait, while the moonlight fades into the gray of dawn._]
ARTIST-MOTHER AND CHILD
* *
_Picture, Mme. Vigée Lebrun and her Daughter by Mme. Vigée Lebrun (1755-1842)._
ARTIST-MOTHER AND CHILD
_The curtains parting, disclose_ +Mme. Vigée Lebrun+ _and her little
daughter, behind a suitable frame, in the picture-pose. The
effect is as if the spectator, through a transparent wall, had
caught a glimpse of them in their living-room, a blank wall of
which forms their background._ +Mme. Lebrun+ _is gazing intently
toward the front, supposedly studying their reflection in a
looking-glass. Against her contentedly nestles_ +The Child+.
_Soon, satisfied with the result of her observation_, +Mme.
Lebrun+, _always behind the frame, reaches for painting materials
that lie beyond the scene, and prepares to work on a small study
for the picture she is projecting. Suddenly the sound of distant
firing is heard. She pauses, brush in hand. When the firing
is followed by a rough shout of triumph, and a snatch of the
Marseillaise, she drops her brush and clasps_ +The Child+ _to her
bosom hard._
+The Child.+
What ails my mother, in yon looking-glass
Our portrait studying she trembles, turns white?
Why drops her brush whenever people pass,
Marching, hurrahing through the streets?... So tight
You clasp, it hurts!
[+Mme. Lebrun+ _caresses the_ +Child+ _soothingly, and, picking
up her brush, resumes work. Every now and then the distant
echoes of revolution are heard. Soon the_ +Child+ _speaks
again._]
How gay seems Paris! Guns
Firing! Who is the Saint whose fête with praise
Is being kept?
+Mme. Lebrun.+
Called by her red-capped sons
St. Liberty; her hymn the Marseillaise.
[_A slight pause._]
+The Child.+
This portrait, will you give it me to keep,
If still I stand and am, oh, very good?
+Mme. Lebrun.+
Perhaps some fairy, when you are asleep,
Will turn it into pretty frocks and food!
[_The_ +Child+ _laughs and claps her hands delightedly. There is
another pause during which_ +Mme. Lebrun+ _works._]
+The Child.+
King, Queen, why never go we now to see:
Louis the kind, fair Marie Antoinette?
+Mme. Lebrun.+
[_Trying to speak lightly._]
No more at Trianon or Tuileries,
Their new address have they not sent us yet!
[_There is another pause, during which a louder note of
revolution is heard, and a red flash as of flame is seen._
+Mme. Lebrun+ _listens anxiously, but as it dies away, resumes
work._]
+The Child.+
Know you the artist Madame Guillotine?
+Mme. Lebrun.+
Child!
[_Horrified._]
+The Child.+
[_Proud of imparting news._]
Aye! Commissioned by France, heard I said,
Soon will she execute our king and queen,
But not as did you, full-length, just the head!
[_A snatch of the Marseillaise again is heard._ +Mme. Lebrun+
_gives way to sudden, silent weeping._]
+The Child.+
Mother, dear, see, where on our portrait fell
Tears!
[_Distressed._]
Mother, let me kiss your tears away!
+Mme. Lebrun.+
[_Wiping eyes, and forcing cheerfulness._]
Aye, for I work in oils, not aquarelle!
[_Prepares to resume work._]
Come!
+The Child.+
First at counting-out suppose we play!
[+Mme. Lebrun’s+ _lips form the word “counting-out” as if this
held an ominous note, then lending herself to the child’s
humor, holds her again in the picture-pose, while together they
croon a little nursery rhyme._]
+Mme. Lebrun.+
Marguerite of Paris, lend me your slippers gray!
+The Child.+
And we will go to Paradise on this sunshiny day.
+Mme. Lebrun.+
Where we shall see the little birds that Jesus made of clay!
+The Child.+
Each evening in the chapel old he lights the candles, without doubt.
+Mme. Lebrun.+
Bread.
+The Child.+
Pipe.
+Mme. Lebrun.+
Bridge of gold.
+Together.+
The prettiest child goes _out_!
[_They kiss, then fall into silence, in the picture-attitude._]
[_The curtains close._]
QUEEN AND EMPEROR
* *
_Picture, Portrait of Queen Louisa, by Gustav Richter (1823-1884)._
QUEEN AND EMPEROR
+Characters+: +King Frederick William III+ _and_ +Queen Louisa+ _of
Prussia; their two sons, the_ +Crown Prince Fritz+ _and his
younger brother_ +William+; _their infant daughter_ +Louisa+.
_The_ +Countess Voss+, _Mistress of the Queen’s Household._
+Baron von Hardenburg+, _Generals_ +Scharnhorst+ _and_ +Blücher+.
_Two_ +Maids+ _of the Queen’s retinue. The infant Princess’s_
+Nurse+. _Of these only the principals need appear. The others
may be inferred from being addressed._ +Napoleon Bonaparte+,
_Emperor of France_; +Talleyrand-Perigord+, _his Minister of
Foreign Affairs._
+Scene+: _A hall in a house at Tilsit._
+Time+: _July, 1807._
_To render this scene effective great care must be exercised in
the stage management. The_ +Queen+ _throughout is the pivotal
person, the central figure. At no moment is the full group in
view; the characters press forward as the text requires, those
invisible lending their assistance by exclamations indicative
of the emotions roused--hatred of_ +Bonaparte+, _love of the
Fatherland, and the like. In minor details historical accuracy
has obviously been sacrificed to dramatic effect. The two princes
did not accompany their mother to Tilsit_, +Princess Louisa+ _was
not born till the year following the truce. Nor does Richter’s
painting, the final tableau, represent the Tilsit lodging. The
main story, however, lies close to fact. In the short dialogue
between mother and lads the general pictorial effect should
follow the painting by Steffeck_, +Queen Louisa+ _and Her Two
Elder_ +Sons+ _on the Luisenweg near Koenigsberg. For the scene
between the_ +Queen+ _and_ +Napoleon+ _a hint may be gathered
from Gosse’s picture. Portraits of_ +Frederick William III+,
+Countess Voss+ _and others may be found in historical works. The
final tableau shows Richter’s painting of_ +Queen Louisa+. _For
this, by a simple mechanical contrivance the picture area must
be narrowed, the frame closing in so as to present the solitary
figure on the stairs in the right picture-proportion._
[_As the curtain rises the_ +Queen’s+ _maids laden with wraps and
hand-baggage are seen, disappearing up the stair. The royal party
enters from the left, the_ +King+, _bareheaded, escorting the_
+Queen+, _who is in travelling attire._]
+The King.+
This, dear one, is our lodgment. Poor the best
The fiend allows us.
[_He sighs. The others groan._]
+The Queen.+
[_Cheerfully._]
It will serve. A comb,
Water to cleanse this travel-soil, and then--
Napoleon!
[_The others sigh heavily._]
+The King.+
[_With solicitude._]
Louisa, did I well
To countenance your coming? Hardenberg,
The Czar, all think your woman’s wit may win
Some peace for Prussia far beyond the terms
The monster yields to our diplomacy!
But an that devil Corsican you fear
To meet--!
+The Queen.+
_I_ fear!
[_Laughs._]
Daughter of Mecklenburg,
And Frederick William’s wife!
[_Kisses the_ +King+.]
That I may fail,
Ah, that alone I fear! And yet if one,
One fort, one smallest village, aye, one foot
Of earth for our belovèd Fatherland
I gain I shall not wholly fail!
[_The_ +King+ _embraces her, while the others cry “Long live
her Gracious Majesty Queen Louisa.” The_ +Queen+, _having
acknowledged the demonstration, continues._]
What mannered brute
This mushroom Emperor?
[_Checks the_ +King+ _who is about to reply._]
Nay; tell me not.
I’ll meet him unprepared, unprejudiced.
+The King.+
A brute describes it. Just a brute, replete
With ill-got conquest. Tyrant, petty, mean.
The Czar, myself, his guests enforced, his slaves,
Almost I said!--he heaps with insult, guised
As compliment!
[_The others groan._]
Oh, we must dine with him!
Our sweet society he’ll not forego!
And so, bethink you, I, who love the meal
At homely noon, now eat at eight at night!
Not born to such convention, yet the beast
Would change the clock, elect himself a god--
Napoleon!
[_Great demonstration from the rest._]
+The Countess Voss.+
[_Impressively._]
He apes the English. More,
He passes them! Their heathen dinner hour
Absorbs the afternoon, I’m told, from four
To five!
[_A shocked murmur from all._]
+The Queen.+
[_Excited._]
Hope! Hope! Huzzah! A ray of hope,
The first! Who apes, mark you, that thing he fears;
And by that thing he fears will some day fall!
O little upstart, self-elected god,
Invincible no more proclaim yourself!
Unwitting your Achilles heel you’ve bared!
Oh, I could hug those English!
+The King.+
[_With a caress._]
Optimist!
[_Sighs heavily again._]
Noon or nocturne, his bread sticks i’ my throat!
The pliant Alexander smiles, digests!
But I--
[_Breaks off with emotion._]
’Tis for my Prussia!
[_Cries of “Long live His Gracious Majesty.”_]
+The Queen.+
[_With a caress._]
Dearest one!
The hour of tryst approaches! Take the boys!
[_The_ +Princes+ _come forward._]
’Tis ages since you’ve seen them. Mark their growth!
And you, dear Voto
[_addressing_ +Countess Voss+],
look to baby!
[_The_ +Nurse+ _with the_ +Infant+ _advances. The_ +Queen+ _shows
the_ +King+.]
See!
The love!
+The Countess Voss.+
Her Royal Highness lacks a name!
+The King.+
Louisa for her peerless mother! Yet,
O hapless child, our kingdom in the dust,
What crownèd heads will dare to sponsor thee?
+The Queen.+
A fig for kings and queens who hold aloof
From sorrow! Goethe, Schiller, all
Blood-princes of the realm of intellect,
In spirit lay your hands upon her brow!
And, present, Blücher, grim old warrior;
Dear Scharnhorst, who have cleft your upward way
With consecrated sword to noble heights;
Germans of Germany, where’er ye bide,
Godparent this poor infant; guide her steps
In ways God-fearing, like your own, to Heav’n!
[_Presenting the child to the group. All press about her with
great demonstration and cries of “Long live Her Royal Highness
Princess Louisa!”_]
They go, singing: “All hail, our Gracious King!
Long live our noble King, God save the King!”
+The King.+
You’d hearten stones!
[_Kisses her hands._]
Until we meet again!
+Prince William.+
[_Clinging to the_ +Queen’s+ _right arm._]
I’ll go pick you some cornflowers. And yet
’Tis said that blossoms blue mean hope deferred,
Desires beyond fulfilment!
+The Queen.+
Thus they bring
Sky to our earth!
+The Crown Prince.+
[_On the_ +Queen’s+ _left._]
Stoop, Mother. Whisper low.
You’re fighting for the throne ... my throne to be!
Yet ... whisper! I don’t want to be a king!
Poor father, see how sad it makes him! Then
Last Christmas did not Santa Claus pass by
Our wretched palace? No gift-laden tree
He brought, for, sooth, we’re children of a king!
+The Queen.+
[_Tenderly._]
My Fritz, our burdens ’tis not ours to choose!
Come, lift your head! That’s my brave lad! Now say
The little catechism that we made
Together!
+The Crown Prince.+
Crown Prince am I
Of Prussia.
+Prince William.+
[_Takes his brother’s hand._]
I am your next brother!
+Both Princes.+
And in our veins flows blood of Frederick
The Great. And we do dedicate our lives
To our lov’d Fatherland to set it free!
[_Each then takes a hand of the_ +Queen+ _and kisses it. They
join their father._ +Prince William+ _suddenly runs back to his
mother._ +Napoleon+, _attended by_ +Talleyrand+, _enters on the
left. They pause, unseen by the Germans, listening._]
+Prince William.+
Is’t true the devil Bonaparte has horns,
Cleft hoof, and tail?
+The Queen.+
[_Between laughter and tears._]
Indeed I would ’twere true,
For that would make me laugh instead of--
[_Turns, runs upstairs with a slightly hysterical laugh. The
boys go off with their father._ +Napoleon+ _and_ +Talleyrand+
_advance, laughing._]
+Talleyrand.+
A flattered portrait, Sire, they paint of you!
+Napoleon.+
[_Shrugs shoulders._]
Our guest, dear Frederick William the Third
Of Prussia has been writing letters home!
[_Takes snuff._]
+Talleyrand.+
The lady’s tardy!
+Napoleon.+
Early rather I.
My whim to catch her off her guard! Poor soul,
We’ll grant her grace to don her bauble crown!
+Talleyrand.+
Interpreted, which favor means the terms
Of Tilsit’s Truce the Tilsit Peace will stand,
Unmodified by fair Louisa’s plea?
+Napoleon.+
Now, Talleyrand, much as I love the sex,
Whene’er did woman’s wiles deflect my star?
+Talleyrand.+
[_Shrugs shoulders._]
Or soon or late the greatest conqueror--
’Tis writ on high! his Armageddon meets.
To witness, Cæsar!
+Napoleon.+
[_In sudden panic._]
Talleyrand! You mean
Some ambuscade, some Brutus’ dagger waits
My breast?
+Talleyrand.+
[_With malign joy._]
Oh, Sire! The name upon my lips
Was Cleopatra’s!
+Napoleon.+
[_Recovers poise._]
Pish! Scoffer, begone!
For, hark! Yon nervous clearing of the throat,
A dainty frou-frou, and light-tripping step
Announce my suppliant!
[_Urges_ +Talleyrand+ _off at the left._]
+Talleyrand.+
Surely you need
Protection, Sire?
+Napoleon.+
From Cleopatra? Nay;
I’m Cæsar, not Mark Antony!
[+Talleyrand+ _bows and goes. The_ +Queen+, _attired as in
Richter’s picture, but crowned, as in Gosse’s, descends._
+Napoleon+ _meets her halfway, takes her hand, conducts her
down a stair._]
+The Queen.+
[_Curtseying._]
Your Imperial Highness!
+Napoleon.+
[_Bowing over her hand._]
Your Majesty!
[_Releases her._]
Welcome to Tilsit!
+The Queen.+
I thank you, Sire. But Tilsit’s Prussian soil!
So Tilsit cries its own welcome to me!
+Napoleon.+
[_Aside._]
Impertinent!
+The Queen.+
But you, Sire, find yourself
In Tilsit welcome?
+Napoleon.+
[_Bows with mock courtesy._]
Thanks. On Prussian soil
Myself, my legions, count ourselves at home!
+The Queen.+
[_Sighs._]
Not mine with you to bandy words. I come
To--
[_Looking up for the first time breaks off with a start._]
+Napoleon.+
[_Maliciously._]
Aha! Confess you miss horns, hoof and tail!
+The Queen.+
[_With sincerity._]
I own, your portraits wrong you, only show--
[_Breaks off._]
+Napoleon.+
Speak freely!
+The Queen.+
So, or not at all. They show
An--well, adventurer!
+Napoleon.+
And so I am!
+The Queen.+
Yet who to arrogance of conquest brings
The brow of Cæsar’s innate majesty!
+Napoleon.+
[_Aside._]
The Siren, would she Cleopatra me?
Best be on guard! Permit like compliment.
A queen? A goddess rather. Child of Zeus,
Athene. Aphrodite’s self!
+The Queen.+
Pray, Sire,
Spare mockery. In print for all to read
Have you set forth disparagement of me:
“Cheap intrigante,” and “would-be Joan-of-Arc,”
“A petticoated politician who
“The State embroils, sheds blood for pastime!” Worst,
My wifely fame have you not scorned to slur!
+Napoleon.+
Madame, upon my honor. I protest--
+The Queen.+
We’ll put that by. Not for myself, I plead
For Prussia.
+Napoleon.+
Well, with Prussia what’s amiss?
+The Queen.+
A fatal malady. Surfeit of France!
+Napoleon.+
A general infection, so it seems,
Through Europe. To return to petticoats,
What fabric this?
[_Touching a fold of the_ +Queen’s+ _dress._]
+The Queen.+
[_Bitterly._]
Chiffons? At such time, Sire,
Shall we discuss chiffons!
+Napoleon.+
’Twould interest
The Empress.
+The Queen.+
Josephine--her heart, ’tis said,
Is kind. Her husband she adores, as I
Mine. O, to my entreaties might she add
Her gentle voice!
+Napoleon.+
[_Aside, bitterly._]
Children this woman bears,
Sons, lusty, beautiful! In fine, Madame,
What will you?
+The Queen.+
Germany for Germans; that,
No more, no less!
+Napoleon.+
[_Sneering._]
Too modest the request!
+The Queen.+
We ask but for our own!
+Napoleon.+
What, with my troops
In Berlin, Danzig, Magdeburg?
+The Queen.+
What’s that
But hostile occupancy, while the toll
You claim as war’s indemnity, sad price
Of brave young blood that had been better spent,
Is highway robbery?
+Napoleon.+
By any name
Shall I exact it.
+The Queen.+
[_Advancing a step._]
Ah, Napoleon!
You love your kin. A thousand proofs declare
How close the tie. So dear, dearer, to me
My children!
+Napoleon.+
[_Aside._]
Sons, princes of royal blood
Bears she her mate!--So close, indeed, kin’s tie
That brothers, sisters, and in-laws I crown
Sov’reigns!
+The Queen.+
[_With sarcastic laughter._]
Kings, queens, made overnight,
Turned out by wholesale from a factory,
And dealt out broadcast, like a pack of cards,
Over the map! Like poets, kings are born,
Not made. It takes an ancestor or so,
Some generations, to produce a lawn,
A monarch, and a gentleman!
+Napoleon.+
[_Bows._]
Some hold
That genius is sufficing ancestry!
You think, Madame, the skies will fall unless
On Prussia’s throne a Hohenzollern sits?
+The Queen.+
[_Bows assent._]
While Hohenzollern draws the breath of life,
Born, bred to lofty service, in the name
Of country, home and God, with heart that beats
Within a mighty people’s heart! Napoleon,
Leave not the Fatherland a cripple, maimed,
Broken of spirit. Take your victor’s slice,
But one small portion, independent, free,
Leave to our ancient right and privilege!
+Napoleon.+
A healthy, growing little enemy
Outside my gates?
+The Queen.+
Not so. Your neighbor, friend!
+Napoleon.+
My friends I buy--and sell my neighbors!
+The Queen.+
Then
God help you!
+Napoleon.+
As He does. God always fights
Upon the side with big Battalions!
+The Queen.+
God help you in the day when Germany
Returns your call in France!
+Napoleon.+
Not mine that day!
+The Queen.+
Not yours; a Hohenzollern’s. We shall live,
Despite Napoleon!
+The Princes.+
[_Without._]
Mother! Where’s our mother!
+Napoleon.+
Sons!...
Your Majesty, deign to accept....
[_Plucks a rose and offers it to the_ +Queen+.]
+The Queen.+
Dear God!
I ask a kingdom and he offers me....
+Napoleon.+
A rose, no less, no more!
+The Queen.+
Alas! We fail.
’Tis Heaven’s will we fail! My comfort this;
The worse our failure, speedier our day
Of vindication. Triumphs bought with blood,
Empires founded on hate, by hatred fall.
Undompted England has a word to say.
And, lo! the first weak point your armor shows,
Your admirable poise the least disturbed,
Without a neighbor, friend, God pity you!
We Germans fail to-day, our treasure drained,
Our lands partitioned, e’en ourselves enslaved.
And yet to the last gasp our hearts beat high
For Germany, our souls belong to God!
[_She makes a low obeisance and retires upstairs._]
+Napoleon.+
A plague upon the woman with her sons!
[_Throwing down the rose and trampling on it._]
+Talleyrand.+
[_Entering from the left._]
You called me, Sire?
+Napoleon.+
[_Sardonically._]
You eavesdropper!
+Talleyrand.+
Ah, say,
You diplomat!
[_Both laugh._]
And how found you the Queen?
+Napoleon.+
A handsome woman with a fluent tongue.
Ye gods, how she ran on!
[_Affects to yawn._]
+Talleyrand.+
[_Aside._]
How he is moved,
All white and trembling! And the Tilsit Peace?
+Napoleon.+
Remains as drafted.
+Talleyrand.+
Not one single point
Conceded to the lady?
+Napoleon.+
Did I know
Terms harsher than we’ve made--!
+Talleyrand.+
[_Picking up the rose._]
Your Majesty
Has dropped this peace-token?
+Napoleon.+
[_Snatching the rose, throws it back into the face of the
Minister._]
You devil, you!
[_He strides off to the left._ +Talleyrand+ _laughs silently. The
lights are lowered._]
+Talleyrand.+
[_Looks toward an unseen window._]
A storm? A passing cloud!
+The Princes.+
[_Outside, call._]
Oh, Mother, dear!
+Talleyrand.+
[_Musingly._]
To-day, Napoleon’s! But in the end....
+The King.+
[_Outside, calling._]
Louisa!
+The Princes.+
Mother!
[+Talleyrand+ _takes a pinch of snuff and follows_ +Napoleon+.]
+The Queen.+
[_Answering, calls._]
Coming, dears!
[_The lights, now bright, show her, in a narrowed frame,
descending the stair, as in Richter’s picture. She pauses,
reflecting._]
+The Queen.+
[_To herself._]
Failure!
As advocate for Germany, I’ve failed!
And yet--
+The King.+
[_Heard, nearer._]
Louisa!
+The Princes.+
[_Nearer._]
Mother!
+The Queen.+
Coming, dears!
[_The curtains close on her, as she pauses, holding a thought of
hope, in spite of present failure, for the future of Germany._]
A MILLET GROUP
* *
_Picture, The Angelus (L’Angelus du Soir), by Jean François Millet (1814-1875)._
A MILLET GROUP
+Characters+ (Taken from Millet’s paintings).
_The Man with the Hoe_ _L’Homme à la Houe_
_A Mother and Child_ _La Sortie_
_Two Washerwomen_ _Les Lavandières_
_A Youth_ _Le Semeur_
_A Husband and Wife_ _L’Angelus du Soir_
_The_ +Voice of Millet+ _heard in a snatch of song._
_The frame must be proportioned, the scene prepared, for the final
tableau, The Angelus. At one moment or another each picture is
presented, the characters not belonging to it dropping naturally
to right and left, as if passing and repassing in a field. The
dialogue is accompanied by a simple, natural action except when
a picture-attitude is being held, when a natural pause must
be achieved. Before the curtains are drawn a horn is heard in
the distance, and the tinkling of cowbells. Then silence. The
curtains drawn disclose the field of L’Angelus du Soir, but with
the solitary figure of_ +The Man with the Hoe+, _L’Homme à la
Houe, occupying the stage. He remains immobile for an appreciable
time, till the picture shall have been recognized and the spirit
of the scene imposed. Then the_ +Mother+ _carrying her child, La
Sortie, appears at the right. The_ +Mother+ _stands, watching
the_ +Man+, _for a short space, then speaks._
+The Mother.+
A sou for your thoughts!
+The Man.+
[_Turns as if wakened from sleep._]
Eh? My thoughts?
[_Laughs._]
That’s a joke!
Now and then when my back is a-weary I pause,
Draw a breath, wipe the sweat off!
[_Suits the action to the word._]
But, thoughts...!
Are you troubled with such?
+The Woman.+
[_Advancing._]
I don’t know! As a girl
I read fairy-tales; dreamed as I dusted and span
Or helped in the field!
[_Laughter is heard. From the left come the two_ +Washerwomen+
_with their baskets. They halt, seeing the others._]
+The Older Washerwoman.+
On my word! One would think ’twas a funeral, feast,
That you’re stopping to chatter!
+The Man.+
[_Indicating the_ +Mother+ _with a jerk of his head._]
She’s telling her dreams!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_With curiosity._]
Has she dreams?
[_From the right comes the_ +Youth+, _whistling. He also pauses._]
+The Mother.+
[_Apologetically, disclaiming the notion of indulging in dreams._]
Oh, not nowadays! Now I’m too old!
I’m turned twenty! But, oh! as a girl how I looked
For a prince to come wooing, and clothe me in silk;
Jewels fine as the crown on our Lady! A coach,
Horses white as your linen, to carry me off
To a castle with servants to wait on me!... Well,
I must go get my good man his supper. All day
He’s been carting manure!
[_Moves as if to go._]
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
Ha, ha, ha! And those dreams?
+The Mother.+
I pass on
To my baby!
[_She talks to the infant. From the left enter the_ +Husband+
_and_ +Wife+, _with pitchfork and wheelbarrow, gathering
potatoes._]
+The Wife.+
Well, well! How she grows! Healthy, too!
+The Mother.+
Aye. I’m hoping to keep her. The others--
+The Wife.+
[_Sympathetically._]
I know.
So with mine. The Lord gives and the Lord takes away!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_Folding linen._]
He takes more in proportion than gives!
+The Others.+
[_Shocked, exclaim._]
Oh, Louise!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
But it’s true, as we country-folk know. He takes youth,
Health, and beauty, and hope. And he gives in return...?
Why, not even a grave!
+The Man.+
Aye; there’s something in that!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_Bitterly, working herself up._]
To the earth are we born, and the earth all our days
Must we till for a meagre subsistence, backs bent,
And our faces, like beasts’, to the earth! Look at you.
[_To the_ +Man+.]
Like some crooked old tree! Do you think like a man?
Do you feel like a man among men? Why, this hoe
Is as human as you, you old stick-i’-the-mud!
+The Woman.+
Oh, Louise!
+The Man.+
[_Nettled._]
I don’t know about that!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
Well, I do!
[_She goes over to the_ +Mother+.]
As for you with your prince of a dung-heap....
+The Mother.+
Hold your tongue! Jealous cat, you!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
Me jealous! Of you!
[_Laughing scornfully._]
+The Husband.+
[_Interposing, pacifically._]
Come, now, lasses! Don’t quarrel!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_Snapping her fingers at him._]
Potato-face!
+The Others.+
[_Some shocked, the rest amused._]
Oh!
+The Wife.+
[_Infuriated._]
Don’t you dare call my man such a name!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_With sudden tenderness, strokes the_ +Wife’s+ _cheek._]
Poor Adèle!
Scarce nineteen, and all furrowed and brown, like the earth!
But you never rebel!
+The Wife.+
[_Mollified._]
I rebel? There are times
When life’s hard--
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
Is there ever a time when it’s not?
+The Wife.+
But I always have Jean!
+The Husband.+
[_Indicating the_ +Wife+.]
Jean has her!
+The Man.+
Aye, that’s true!
+The Voice of Millet.+
[_Singing, on the right._]
Oh, Normandy! My Normandy! Again to see my Normandy!
[_All turn enquiringly._]
+The Youth.+
[_Shading his eyes, the better to see._]
’Tis our neighbor, the artist, Millet. He’s been off
Selling pictures in Paris. He must have come back
By the Fontainebleau stage!
[_The snatch of song again is heard, receding._]
From his song he’s had luck
With his market!
+The Older Washerwoman.+
It’s time. Months behind with his rent!
And their bills...! Butcher, baker, unpaid for--how long?
Not a shop in Chailly gives them credit!
+The Wife.+
Poor souls!
With nine children to feed!
+The Mother.+
And his wife--she’s not strong.
+The Older Washerwoman.+
Bailiffs soon will be put in possession, they say,
Of the house, unless money’s forthcoming!
+The Wife.+
Poor souls!
With nine children!
+The Older Washerwoman.+
You can’t blame the tradesmen! Monsieur
Is an artist, you see!
+The Wife.+
He means well, all the same.
+The Husband.+
[_Nods assent, while continuing his work._]
A good fellow!
+The Older Washerwoman.+
He’s lazy. I’ve seen him, myself,
By the hour, lying back on the heather!
+The Man.+
Well, well!
+The Mother.+
On the heather? His wife is too patient! If I
Caught my man...!
+The Youth.+
He has told me--he’s watching the sky!
[_All exclaim, derisively._]
+The Man.+
[_Rather apologetically for himself as well as for_ +Millet+.]
Well, I do that myself, now and then, just to see
If ’twill rain.
+The Older Washerwoman.+
He’s no farmer, or peasant, like us!
What’s the weather to him!
+The Youth.+
It’s the forms of the clouds
That he studies. He’s told me! the colors that change
With the day. Oh, it’s just like a poem, the way
That he tells it!... The trees of the forest, he says,
Speak a language their own! And the birds, and the wind--!
+The Older Washerwoman.+
He’s a lazybones!
+The Man.+
Hm! Now I doubt if he’s right!
[_Taps forehead significantly._]
+The Husband.+
All the same, a good neighbor, kind heart, at a time
When there’s trouble!
+The Wife.+
But--nine! And he looks at the sky!
+The Youth.+
But he works! Oh, I don’t mean just painting! He digs
In his garden of mornings! His roses are fine,
And his cabbages ... well, you can’t beat them!
+The Wife.+
Poor soul!
He has need, with nine children!
[_The voice of_ +Millet+ _again is heard in a snatch of song._]
+The Youth.+
Just hark how he sings!
He’s so glad to be home!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
Fancy. Glad to be here!
Fancy! Glad to leave Paris! An artist at that!
+The Older Washerwoman.+
[_Helping the other to fold a sheet._]
Oh, not really an artist! Why, look what he paints!
Nothing nice: parks with fountains and ladies with fans,
And guitar-playing lovers! Such ev’ryday things.
Just a field, such as this. Why, you almost can smell
The potatoes, the newly-turned earth, or the wheat
As the harvesters bind it, the linen we wash,
In those pictures of his!
+The Man.+
Aye! There is something in that!
+The Older Washerwoman.+
And his people, just peasants like us!
+The Man.+
Aye; that’s true.
And so ugly!
[_Naïvely._]
Why, he’s painted me!
[_Unconsciously falling again into the picture-position. The
others laugh at him._]
+The Husband.+
[_With a slight, reminiscent grievance._]
Aye. Myself and the wife here have stood for him. Decked
In our Sundayfied best, for the Barbizon fête,
There are worse-looking couples! But Monsieur Millet
Is for painting us just as you see!
+The Wife.+
But, poor soul!
He means well!
+The Youth.+
But that’s beauty! He told me. Ourselves
As God meant, tillers, toilers of earth, with God’s sky
Overhead! And I feel, when, in sowing the seed,
With a prayer the first handful I toss in the form
Of a cross--
[_Instinctively acting it out he falls naturally into the
position of “The Sower.”_]
Then I feel--
[_He breaks off, smitten with self-consciousness._]
I lack words, but I feel
What our neighbor puts into his pictures!
+The Man.+
[_Not knowing what else to say, says_]
Well, well!
+The Mother.+
[_Sitting on the edge of the_ +Husband’s+ _wheelbarrow._]
When I wanted to put on my earrings at least--
Who’s to know that one has them if not! Said Monsieur,
Mother-love was adornment enough! Mother-love
Makes the face of a woman divine, be she queen,
Or just peasant, like me!
[_Cuddling her infant._]
+Several.+
Well, there’s something in that!
+The Wife.+
[_With some faint apprehension of the finer thing._]
And I, too, when it’s cool and the evening is still,
The potatoes all stacked, from yon church at Chailly,
When the bell rings the Angelus--
[_Breaks off, lacking expression, and picks up another potato._]
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_Has listened attentively. She now breaks into mocking
laughter._]
Clots of earth! Clots of earth, clots of earth, ev’ry one!
+The Older Washerwoman.+
[_Resentfully._]
Clot yourself! Aren’t you one of us born?
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
Being born
Isn’t all of one’s life! Soon this Barbizon soil
I shake off, change sabots for silk stockings, and shoes
With high heels like a lady’s! You’ll see!
+The Others.+
And what then?
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_Balancing her basket on her head._]
And then ... Paris!
+The Others.+
Louise!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
And then, Paris!
[_Going._]
+The Older Washerwoman.+
[_Following her._]
Louise!
+The Younger Washerwoman.+
[_Is heard, laughing, and repeating._]
Paris!
+The Man.+
[_Preparing to go._]
You can’t blame her. Life’s hard, as she said!
+The Wife.+
Oh, not blame!
Shall one blame what the good God permits? But at least
One can pity and pray!
[_Crossing herself._]
+The Mother.+
[_Going._]
Well, my man will be in
From the field
[_The_ +Youth+ _drifts away, whistling_ +Millet’s+ _song._]
+The Husband.+
[_Shaking down the potatoes in their sack._]
Life is hard, as she said. But at least--
+The Wife.+
[_Completing his thought._]
Aye. At least,
God be thanked! we’re together!
[_Millet’s voice again is heard softly in a snatch of song._]
+The Husband.+
[_Recurring to a former train of thought._]
But as for him yon
And his pictures...!
[_Shakes his head, resigning the subject._]
+The Wife.+
Poor soul! He means well!
[_The daylight, bright at first, gradually has declined to
twilight. As_ +Husband+ _and_ +Wife+, _their work ended,
prepare to leave the field, from the tower of Chailly church
rings the evening Angelus. Setting down barrow, planting
pitchfork, the two bow their heads in prayer, repeating_]:
“The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary,
And she conceived of the Holy Ghost.
Hail, Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee....”
[_The bell grows fainter and fainter. The words die on the lips
of the man and woman. The figures become motionless, as if the
scene were being translated from the realm of reality to that
of fantasy. Then the curtains are drawn._]
Transcriber’s Notes
For possible printer’s errors in spelling, punctuation, etc., only the changes listed below were made.
_Italics_ and +Small Caps+ were formatted as so.
Stage directions were generally silently moved outside of dialogue. When at the beginning of dialogue, they were moved above. When at the end of dialogue, they were moved below. When in the middle of dialogue, the line was split--with added indentation--and the directions were moved to the middle.
The alignment of stage directions was silently standardized. For reference, the first stage direction immediately after a character’s name was commonly centered below the name in the print.
Indented dialogue, when apparently part of a metrical line divided among different speakers, was silently indented to align with the other sections of the metrical line. Unindented dialogue, if likely part of a metrical line, was only indented when listed below.
Inconsistencies in the speaker’s name were generally retained. See “A SALON CARRÉ FANTASY” for examples such as “+Young Man with Glove.+” and “+Young Man with a Glove.+”.
On page 4 on the title page, “Cranfeld: a Play” appears to refer to the previously mentioned “Cranford: A Play”. This inconsistency was retained.
On page 11 in the stage direction that begins with “After a slight pause she approaches”, “Da Vinci” was formatted as Small Caps (Small Caps’d in later instances) for standardization.
On page 12 in the stage direction that begins with “The lady nods, as if to say”, “Da Vinci” was Small Caps’d.
On page 14, the stage direction “Bows affirmatively.” was enclosed with brackets.
On page 24, the unindented line “Well, it’s here!” was indented.
On the same page, the unindented line “Why, Portrait of a Man!” was indented.
On page 27, the unindented line “But that poor girl in trouble!” was indented.
On the same page in the stage direction that begins with “Bumping into”, “Gardien” was Small Caps’d.
On page 31 in the stage direction that goes “The Woman at her Toilet runs away, right.”, “Woman at her Toilet” was Small Caps’d.
On page 32 in the stage direction that begins with “Coming again toward”, “Young Man” was Small Caps’d.
On page 34 the unindented line “True. Still I think he should withdraw” was indented.
On page 35 in the stage direction that goes “To the Young Man”, “Young Man” was Small Caps’d.
On page 36, the unindented line “Aye. And for another!” was indented.
On the same page, the unindented line “Dio mio! Dare I hope...?” was indented.
On page 42, the unindented line “Then, what woman meant you now?” was indented.
On page 43, the unindented line “Oh, worthy of our School!” was indented.
On page 54, the unindented line “Standing here, shall I be drawn” was indented.
On page 57 immediately before the entrance of the Husband and Wife, the unindented line “Hush!” was indented.
On page 59 in the stage direction that goes “Leading the Wife away to the right.”, “Wife” was Small Caps’d.
On page 61, the unindented line “This grows monotonous!” was indented.
On page 69, the unindented line “’Tisn’t really good!” was indented.
On the same page in the stage direction that goes “Leading Laura to the right.”, “Laura” was Small Caps’d.
On page 73 on the title page of His Mother’s Face, “Champtêre” was corrected to “Champêtre”
On page 75 in the paragraph that begins with “The curtains, parting, disclose”, “Watteau” was Small Caps’d.
On page 83, a closing bracket was removed from the end of the paragraph that ends with “addressing her discourse to him.”.
On page 91 in the stage-setting paragraph, the section “always behind the frame, reaches” was italicized to match the formatting of the paragraph.
On page 94, the unindented line “First at counting-out suppose we play!” was indented.
On the same page, the stage direction “The curtains close.” was italicized.
On page 97, the scene description “A hall in a house at Tilsit.” was italicized.
On page 109 in the stage direction that goes “Touching a fold of the Queen’s dress.”, “Queen’s” was Small Caps’d.
On page 115, the unindented line “You devil, you!” was indented.
On page 116 immediately after the stage direction “Answering, calls.”, the unindented line “Coming, dears!” was indented.
On page 119 in the sentence “The Mother stands”, “Mother” was Small Caps’d.
On page 123 in the stage direction that goes “She goes over to the Mother.”, “Mother” was Small Caps’d.
On the same page, the unindented line “Me jealous! Of you!” was indented.
On page 124, the unindented line “Is there ever a time when it’s not?” was indented.
On page 125, the unindented line “It’s time. Months behind with his rent!” was indented.
On page 126, the unindented line “He has told me--he’s watching the sky!” was indented.
On the same page in the stage direction that goes “Rather apologetically for himself as well as for Millet.”, “Millet” was Small Caps’d.
On page 132 in the stage direction that includes “whistling Millet’s song”, “Millet’s” was Small Caps’d.
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Picture playsChapter II: Part 2
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