Chapter I: Part 1
PICTURE PLAYS
UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME
“+Cranford: A Play.+” By Marguerite Merington. A comedy in three acts
made from Mrs. Gaskell’s famous novel. With a cover design and a
frontispiece by Edwin Wallick. Cloth, 12mo, $1.25.
“+The Vicar of Wakefield: A Play.+” In five acts, founded on
Goldsmith’s novel. Cover inlay and frontispiece in colors by John
Rae. $1.25 net.
“+Holiday Plays+”: Five one-act pieces for Thanksgiving Day,
Washington’s Birthday, Fourth of July, Lincoln’s Birthday and
Memorial Day. Cover inlay and frontispiece by John Rae. $1.25 net.
“+Pride and Prejudice: A Play.+” By Mrs. Steele MacKaye. A comedy in
four acts, founded on Jane Austen’s novel. With frontispiece in
color by Edwin Wallick. Cloth, 12mo, $1.25.
PICTURE PLAYS
BY MARGUERITE MERINGTON
Author of “Cranfeld: a Play,” “The Vicar of Wakefield: a Play,” “Holiday Plays,” etc., etc.
NEW YORK DUFFIELD AND COMPANY 1911
+Copyright, 1911, by+ DUFFIELD AND COMPANY
* *
_All rights reserved_
CONTENTS
PAGE
+The Last Sitting+ 9
_Picture_, +Mona Lisa+, _by Da Vinci_.
+A Salon Carré Fantasy+ 19
_Picture_, +The Man With a Glove+, _by Titian_.
+His Mother’s Face+ 75
_Picture_, +Une Fête Champêtre+, _by Watteau_.
+A Gainsborough Lady+ 83
_Picture_, +The Duchess of Devonshire+, _by
Gainsborough_.
+Artist-Mother and Child+ 91
_Picture_, +Mme. Vigée Lebrun and her Daughter+, _by Mme.
Vigée Lebrun_.
+Queen and Emperor+ 97
_Picture_, +Queen Louisa+, _by Richter_.
+Millet Group+ 119
_Picture_, +The Angelus+, _by Millet_.
_In the stage directions right and left are used from the standpoint of the actor, facing the audience._
* *
_A fee is charged for the use of any or all of these plays. Application should be made to Duffield & Company, 36 West 37th street, New York._
THE LAST SITTING
* *
_Picture, Mona Lisa, by Da Vinci_
THE LAST SITTING
+Characters+: +Da Vinci+ _the artist and his sitter_ +Mona Lisa+.
_The scene presents a section of the artist’s studio in Florence
in the first years of the sixteenth century. At the back,
which is open, one sees a balcony, and beyond this the sky of
late afternoon, gradually fading to a mellow twilight. Plants,
flowers, statues, give the place a festive air. In the centre
is a plain, dark screen, in which has been cut a frame-like
opening. Behind this sits_ +Mona Lisa+, _a young woman in the
early twenties, in the picture-attitude. Well down to one side,
at his easel, is_ +Da Vinci+, _a handsome man between forty and
fifty, in rose-colored coat, and black cap from beneath which
flow his dark curling locks, absorbed in his work. Before the
curtains part, and for a minute or so after, men’s voices to the
accompaniment of a lute are heard singing_:
_From a country far I came.
Strange the hap!
Ask not its name,
Place on the map!_
_But my heart beyond the sea
Knew your welcome waited me!_
_Such a little while--
Tear, song, and sigh,
Twilight and a woman’s smile,
You and I!_
+Mona Lisa.+
[_As the song ends, with a sigh of rapture._]
O strain divine! Ferarra’s music set
With lyric words befitting!
What means it all? Twin spirits met
Only to part, parting to meet again ...
Like yonder crystal globes that play
At hide-and-seek beneath the fountain’s spray;
[_Pointing to one side where a fountain is supposed to be._]
As pain mocks pleasure, sunbeams conquer rain!
Master!
[_With sudden contrition._]
I spoil the sitting!
A thousand pardons. I’ll keep still.
+Da Vinci.+
Not so, Madonna. Speak and move at will,
The background while I sketch.
+Mona Lisa.+
[_Rising, comes from behind the screen._]
Background, in sooth!
[_Leaning on the balcony, she looks over, then turns to him._]
Below, a tempting parquet,
Lies Florence, jewel-bright with youth,
And all the singing pageantry of life!
From which I fain must turn to face
In fancy, what?
[_Indicating the front, as if it were a wall on which her dreams
were visualized during her sittings._]
+Da Vinci.+
Your home.
+Mona Lisa.+
Sole resting place
For fancy?
+Da Vinci.+
[_With conviction._]
Aye, Madonna, when a wife....
Unless ’twere mass or market!
+Mona Lisa.+
[_With a half-smile and a half-sigh, going to a mirror and
contemplating her reflection._]
Poor Mona Lisa! Such reply
Might give Giocondo ... he whose third am I!
[_After a slight pause she approaches_ +Da Vinci+, _who is busily
at work._]
Ser Leonardo, is, as men aver,
Art so to you a cloister
No woman boasts your love for her?
+Da Vinci.+
[_Smiles, and pauses a minute before answering._]
Once on a time, a crab, all craft and claw,
Wooed shellfish with crustacean wile.
Then, through the flattered fool’s wide-open smile,
Plucked out its heart! The moral, pray you, draw!
+Mona Lisa.+
[_Laughs, but slightly ruefully._]
Crab I; you no such oyster!
[_Da Vinci nods a smiling assent. Again she speaks, but this time
seriously._]
Is art love’s foe, then?
+Da Vinci.+
[_With a gesture renouncing the issue._]
Who can tell
If spark shall kindle altar-flame, or hell?
[_The lady nods, as if to say, “I see your point-of-view, though
without binding myself to share it!” and moves about the room,
occupying herself with the flowers. Going behind the artist,
she showers a handful of petals over him. Looking up_, +Da
Vinci+ _invites her attention to his work._]
+Mona Lisa.+
[_Exclaims, and claps her hands delightedly._]
’Tis wondrous strange: when to be painted, first
My good Giocondo brought me,
Strained glance and formal mien rehearsed,
Prim folded hands ... like this!
[_Illustrating._]
Self-conscious smirk
As one who from her frame cries, “See!
“The great Da Vinci’s self hath painted me!”
I deemed my sitter’s tribute to your work!
But these four years have taught me...!
+Da Vinci.+
[_Completing her thought._]
From fragment mood one gleans the whole;
Portrays, less hand, eye, smiling lip, than soul!
+Mona Lisa.+
[_Reflecting on this, speaks with some bitterness._]
The soul! A human soul! Poor wanton thing!
Sport of your beck and bribing!
Thus wide its prison-doors you fling
For thrush, caged swallow, ransomed from the mart ...
Through pity of its lonely note?
Ah, no! Cold-blood, by rule to test, and rote,
Dipped wing and balanced muscle for your Art!
[_She moves away._]
+Da Vinci.+
[_Has uttered a protesting “Oh, oh!” He now explains._]
That’s Buonarotti’s gibing!
+Mona Lisa.+
[_Earnestly; completing her analogy._]
Master, to bird or soul such flight
Spells--
+Da Vinci.+
Freedom!
+Mona Lisa.+
[_Shakes her head mournfully._]
Song-void days, and mateless night!
+Da Vinci.+
[_After a slight pause, picks up his brush again._]
Come; sit, Madonna, for the last time!
+Mona Lisa.+
[_Turns on him with a startled exclamation, then forces herself
to speak calmly._]
Done,
My portrait, then?
+Da Vinci.+
[_Bows affirmatively._]
The features.
Poised, Sphinx-wise, twixt coquette and nun,
Ever your smile eludes....
+Mona Lisa.+
Painter, or man?
+Da Vinci.+
[_Shrugs shoulders._]
Ask Time, artist whose master-skill
Puts the transcending touch! Unfinished, still
Divine, so bides my Christ-face at Milan!
+Mona Lisa.+
And I, least of His creatures,
Bide ... how?
+Da Vinci.+
Divine, grace of Art’s brush,
Or.... Choose! Woman by love revealed!
[_Throwing aside his brush, he strides a step or so toward her,
then stands with extended arms, awaiting her choice._]
+Mona Lisa.+
[_Exclaims, shocked at the crisis she herself has invited._]
Oh! Hush!
[_Picking up the artist’s brush, she puts it into his hand,
then quietly resumes her place behind the screen._ +Da Vinci+
_bows, resigning himself to her decision, and goes back to his
place, first, with a wave of his hand, giving a signal to the
musicians, who would seem to be in a gallery to one side, but
unseen by the spectator. Again the music sounds, men’s voices
accompanied by the lute, very softly and finally dying away._
+Mona Lisa+ _glances now and then wistfully at_ +Da Vinci+,
_but he soon becomes wholly engrossed with his work, as if no
emotional passage between them had occurred. At last, with a
slight sigh of final renunciation, she composes her features
to her inscrutable half-smile as she gazes steadfastly on an
imaginary world. And so are the curtains drawn upon the scene._]
_To my country far I wend
Home my way,
While shadows blend
Darkness with day._
_Throat of thrush and swallow’s wing
Tidings of me still may bring!_
_Oh, such short-lived bliss:
Tear, song, and sigh,
Starlight, and a lover’s kiss.
Then, Good-bye!_
A SALON CARRÉ FANTASY
* *
_Picture, The Young Man with a Glove. L’Homme au Gant by Titian (Tiziano Vecelli, 1477-1578)._
A SALON CARRÉ FANTASY
+Characters+: _Pictures, The_ +Young Man with a Glove+ _... L’Homme
au Gant_, +The Woman at her Toilet+, _supposed to be Laura
Dianti. Other masterpieces, but unseen._
+Human Beings+: _The_ +Glove Young Man+; +Laura+, _an Art-student;
Visitors to the galleries of the Louvre, including a_ +Husband+
_and_ +Wife+, _an_ +Elderly Party+ _from the country with her
niece, a_ +Teacher and her Class+, _and a rhapsodic_ +German
Lady+; _a_ +Gardien+ _of the Louvre galleries._
+Time+: _The present._
+Scene+: _The spot in the Salon Carré of the Louvre where hangs
Titian’s picture, L’Homme au Gant. In front of the railing which
guards the walls is room for persons to pass. At one side is the
regulation velvet-covered bench. On the other, at her easel,
sits_ +Laura+, _making a copy of the picture._
[_As the curtains part, the_ +Husband+ _and_ +Wife+ _enter from the
right._]
+The Husband.+
[_With catalogue, announces with authority._]
Fifteen-ninety-two is L’Homme au Gant.
Ha! French!
+The Wife.+
[_Looking over his shoulder timidly corrects._]
Venetian.
+The Husband.+
L’Homme is French for man.
Gant, glove.
+The Wife.+
Titian. Venetian School. Just look!
+The Husband.+
’Tis not the question where he went to school.
L’Homme stamps him French.
+The Wife.+
[_Timidly venturing a joke._]
Perhaps his gloves are French.
+The Husband.+
[_Determined to find fault._]
Gant, glove, is singular. It should be called
A Man with Pair of Gloves. I shall report
The matter! Come!
[_They pass to the left._]
+Laura.+
Oh, dear! Such people make
Me weary!
+German Lady.+
[_Enters from the left. Speaks rapturously._]
Ach, du lieber ... wunderschön!
[_Some_ +French Visitors+, _entering, accidentally jostle the_
+German Lady+. _Apologies are exchanged in their respective
tongues._]
+One French Visitor.+
[_Looking at the picture._]
Superbe! Magnifique!
+Another French Visitor.+
Pas grande chose!
[_They pass on._]
[_The_ +Elderly Party+ _and_ +Young Woman+ _enter, right._]
+Elderly Party.+
Who’s this young feller?
+German Lady.+
Wunder-wunder-wunderschön!
+Elderly Party.+
[_Consulting catalogue._]
St. George
And Dragon! He’s some dressy for a saint!
And, ef they haven’t left the dragon out!
I allus had a notion I should like
To see one!
+Young Woman.+
[_Beckoning on the left._]
Auntie! Over here!
+Elderly Party.+
[_Joining the_ +Young Woman.+ _Scrutinizes an unseen
masterpiece._]
Do tell!
Is that a dragon? Mercy, ain’t he plain!
+Laura.+
Cattle! Why don’t they stay in home-pastures!
Not come and trample down Elysian fields!
[_Notices_ +German Lady+ _still enraptured._]
Well, on my word, does she intend to spend
The whole day, wunderschöning here? I beg
Your pardon!
+German Lady.+
Fräulein?
+Laura.+
You are not, as you
May think, transparent!
+German Lady.+
[_Apologetically, moving away._]
Fräulein!
+Laura.+
Thanks. The Louvre
Contains some other works of interest!...
The creature acts as if she thought she owned
This portrait!
[_Jealously._]
+Young Man with Glove.+
[_Slightly bored._]
Oh, ta, ta!
+Laura.+
[_Agitated._]
What’s that!
It seemed to move, to say--
+Young Man with Glove.+
Oh, ta, ta, ta!
[_Unable to believe the evidence of her senses_, +Laura+ _resumes
work._ +Teacher and Class+ _enter from the left._]
+Teacher.+
[_Dictating from Baedeker._]
Giorgione’s work.
Take notes. “A Rustic Festival.”
+Class.+
[_Mechanically, taking notes._]
Giorgione, Rustic Festival.
+Teacher.+
[_Dictating._]
Remark the depth and warmth of coloring,
Rich treatment of the landscape!
+Youngest Pupil.+
[_Looking at the picture._]
I don’t see
The landscape!
+Teacher.+
Well, it’s here!
[_Indicating Baedeker, then glances up at picture._]
Oh, wait a bit!
[_Turns over leaves, finding place._]
The After-Dinner Concert.... Magdalen
With Ointment.... Here we are. Young Man in
Black with Glove.
+Some of the Class.+
[_Mechanically, taking notes._]
Young Man in Black Glove.
+Others.+
Black Young Man in Glove!
+The Oldest Pupil.+
What must we say
Of this?
+Teacher.+
[_Dictating._]
“An admirable portrait....”
+Class+
An admirable portrait.
+Youngest Pupil.+
Please. Portrait
Of whom?
+Oldest Pupil.+
[_Glancing up at picture._]
Why, Portrait of a Man!
+Class.+
[_Glancing up at picture._]
Of course!
+Teacher.+
[_Consulting Baedeker._]
No, no. “An admirable portrait of
His Middle Period.”
+Class.+
[_Writing._]
His Middle Period.
+Oldest Pupil.+
How much must we admire this: _very_ much?
+Teacher.+
Marked with but one star, no; not _very_ much.
In the Salon Carré, admire, of course.
One star, more admiration than for those
Without one. But unstinted raptures keep
For double-stars. For instance, this one, here....
[_Leading to the right._]
St. Catharine--Correggio. All take notes.
Of which Vasari says--
+Youngest Pupil.+
[_Lingering._]
We don’t have time
To see the pictures!
+Teacher.+
[_Wearily._]
How can I help that?
An hour is all we have to do the Louvre!
“Of which Vasari says....” Take notes!
+Laura.+
Barbarians! Of all
The hordes, nose-glued to Baedekers, that pass,
Scarce one is worthy to lift eyes to thee,
O masterpiece of masterpieces!
+Young Man with Glove.+
Oh, ta, ta!
+Laura.+
Good Heavens, there it goes again ... ta, ta!
Absurd. I’m dreaming. Eyesight overtaxed,
Nerves play me false. To work again. Right hand
A patch of light, significant that seems
To follow whither eyes direct, those eyes
Alive with challenge, charm! His gracile ease,
As on the parapet he leans, denotes
No haste. We catch him unawares. Near by
Some interlocutor--by which I mean,
God help me!--interlocutress, for whom
He feels a more than common interest!
Oh, for a miracle. Would that those lips
Might break the seal of centuries for me
To learn his secret!
+Young Man with Glove.+
Oh, ta, ta!
+Laura.+
He lives,
Moves, speaks! It is too much to bear! Help! Help!
[_Runs off, left, crying for help._]
+Gardien.+
[_Hurrying on from the right._]
Au secours! Au secours!
[_Seeing nothing demanding his services, he dusts the bench with
his handkerchief._]
+The Husband.+
[_Entering from the left._]
Do come!
+The Wife.+
[_Following, looking back, to the left._]
But that poor girl in trouble!
+The Husband.+
[_Taking his wife’s arm and steering her, right._]
Well,
Don’t look! Don’t meddle with.... How dare you, sir!
[_Bumping into_ +Gardien+ _who is going to the left._]
+Gardien.+
M’sieur! Mille pardons!
+The Husband.+
Certainly not. You ought to be discharged!
[_Going to the right, sees a picture further on, exclaims._]
Bless my soul!
That red-head hussy yonder, doing up
Her hair, while someone, obviously a man,
Holds up two looking-glasses! Shameless thing!
[_Putting up eyeglass to get a better view._]
+The Wife.+
Oh, exquisite! A Titian!
+The Husband.+
A disgrace!
If this is what art’s coming to--!
+The Wife.+
My dear,
That’s an Old Master!
+The Husband.+
Old enough to know
Much better. I shall write a letter to
The Times about it!
[_Exclaims, as the_ +Young Man with Glove+, _leaning forward,
knocks his hat over one eye._]
What a draught! But where
Can it be coming from!
[_Again exclaims, as the_ +Young Man+ _knocks his hat which he
just has righted, over the other eye._]
And where can it
Be going to! I shall report it! Come!
[_He goes to the right, the wife following._]
+Young Man with Glove.+
[_Laughing, emerges from his frame, vaulting neatly over the
railing._]
A neat revenge; eh, compari?
+Unseen Pictures.+
Bravo!
Bravissimo!
+The Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Enters from the right, gathering some rich drapery about
herself._]
Red-head, indeed, and hussy! I can’t wait
Till closing time, Signore, to express
My warmest gratitude.... I fain would say
My heartfelt, had I but a heart; for this
Your gallant championship!
[_Curtseying._]
+Young Man with Glove.+
[_Bowing low._]
With pleasure duty lies in your behalf.
Madonna ... Laura Dianti, I believe?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
A point on which historians divide!
The name suits me as well as any! You,
Signore, were baptized--?
+Young Man with Glove.+
In oils alone!
Unsired, came I into this picture-world!
No human mother bore me that I knew!
Even as you I sprang from hand and brain
Of the Vecelli! But what man he used
As manikin to fit my features on,
Have I forgotten, if I ever knew!
As for a name, oft I amuse myself
By filching one from passers-by! To-day
Carlo of the Neroni seems to ring
Not unbecomingly. What think you?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Fine!
From whom derived?
+Young Man with Glove.+
A letter that I found
Beside this easel. Charley Black, ’tis signed.
Which I translated.... But why do we stand?
My frame why not enter with me awhile?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Hesitating._]
I fear ’twould cause remark!
+Unseen Pictures.+
[_On the left, warning._]
Look out!
[_The_ +Woman at her Toilet+ _runs away, right._]
+Young Man with Glove.+
[_Looking toward the left._]
We’re safe. ’Tis only the custodian
Of our security!...
[_Leans against wall while_ +Gardien+ _passes across, left to
right._]
St. George, come down
From your high horse and fence!
+St. George.+
[_Unseen._]
Sorry,
Dear boy, but there’s a fine for breaking ranks
In exhibition hours!
[_Murmurs of assent from other unseen pictures._]
+Young Man with Glove.+
Oh, very well!
I’ll take a turn among the Later Dutch,
Or through the Spanish School!
[_Cries of “Stop him! Stop him!”_]
What can I do?
If I play here you all complain that I
Disturb the Holy Families!
+Unseen Pictures.+
[_In succession._]
You do!
+Young Man with Glove.+
[_Whimsically, keeping count._]
See, now! Murillo’s; Rembrandt’s; Raphael’s,
And all the rest!
+St. George.+
At times, dear boy, you act
Just like a silly human being!
+Young Man with Glove.+
[_Protesting._]
Oh,
St. George!
+Several Unseen Pictures.+
’Tis true!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Coming again toward the_ +Young Man+.]
Signore, neighbor, friend,
And, strongest bond, co-Titian. Have a care.
I speak for all in saying that, of all,
Are you the highest note, last cry in art
That’s personal!
+Young Man with Glove.+
[_Striving to be modest about it._]
So commentators say!
And who am I that should contradict!
+A Gruff Voice.+
[_On the left._]
’Tis naught so much to brag of, my young blade!
+Young Man with Glove.+
[_Looking in the direction of the Voice._]
Indeed, Poussin’s Diogenes.... It was
Poussin’s Diogenes, I think, that spoke?
+Deep, Solemn Voice.+
You talk too much for the Salon Carré!
You should be hung among the Moderns!
[_Others murmur, as if this were too severe._]
+Young Man with Glove.+
Oh,
St. Michael! Though you are a Raphael
Touched up a bit, indeed, ’tis said, by--
[_Loud cries of “Order! Order!”_]
+St. George.+
Invidious reference to pedigrees
Is barred!
[_Loud cries of “Hear, Hear!”_]
+Young Man with Glove.+
True. Still I think he should withdraw
The slur of modernism!
+St. Michael.+
I refuse
To enter talking-lists! Sublimest art
Is ever silent! I have spoken!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Hush!
Provoke him not! Remember, he’s a Saint!
+Young Man with Glove.+
[_Laughing, gracefully yields the point._]
Heaven be thanked, I’m secular! One gets
So much more harmless pleasure out of art!
But, to our muttons. You were saying, what?
Something about my Middle Period!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Sir, long ago it was constated, you
Express most fully life-in-art to life
That speaks in terms of life, not terms of art!
[_Cries of “Hear, hear!”_]
+St. George.+
That hits the nail where rarely nail is hit
By womenkind!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
My thanks, St. George! ’Tis not
My own, though!... Then, I’m just a bit that way
Myself!
[_General laughter._]
[_To the_ +Young Man+.]
Sublimest heights you may not scale....
+St. Michael.+
No; not by many a league!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
I quite admit
My single-starred estate!
[_General laughter._]
I would not brag,
By that same token, though, am I not, well,
More popular than others I could name
In this collection?
+St. Michael.+
I don’t understand
A word he says what time he tries to talk
St. George’s English.
+St. George.+
Oh, not mine! Echoes
Of text-book, tourist jargon, student slang!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Drawing the_ +Young Man+ _forward._]
Listen. I fear not, as our neighbors do,
Your frolic humor, lifelike charm, may bring
Our cinquecento into disrepute.
’Tis for yourself I plead!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
[_Puzzled._]
You plead for me,
Madonna?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Aye. And for another!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Who...?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
A woman!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Dio mio! Dare I hope...?
[_Advancing toward her._]
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Retreating._]
Ah, no, no, no! Misread me not! Oh, who
Are you and I to play at life and love--
To breathe, even, of mysteries that lie
Our shadow-world of canvas, paint, beyond?
+Young Man with a Glove.+
[_Musingly._]
And yet, if only dimly sensed, why not?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Always with increasing feeling._]
O fateful power, poised in bold relief
Against your dusky background, so to seem
Alert into a world of flesh and blood
To spring!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
[_With growing life-quality._]
Yet, for one human hour, why not!
Come, let us forth into the sunlit groves,
Where birds are singing, you and I?
[_Holding arms out toward her._]
+Woman at her Toilet.+
For you
It would be death!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
With you, why not?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Alas!
Ser Tiziano in another mood
Contrived me! You clean-cut may break away,
Our prison roam at will!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
[_Laughing._]
A fiction! Hark:
Outposts of Renaissance I cannot pass!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
But I only a few steps may achieve.
And, see! the damask how I tear away!
[_Drawing drapery closer about herself._]
+Young Man with a Glove.+
My strength shall draw you, draw you, draw,
All barriers across!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Almost yielding._]
We should be missed!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
What then? “Another scandal in the Louvre!
Two masterpieces missing, raped, no doubt,
By some trans-ocean plutocrat!” While hand
In hand we fare to Italy!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Looking toward the right._]
Oh! The patrol!
[_The two duck behind the bench as the_ +Gardien+ _passes
through, right to left, then rise._]
[_Just then the_ +German Lady+ _enters from the right._]
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Heavens! Here comes the Wunderschöner! Hide!
[_They duck again._]
+German Lady.+
[_Begins, rapturously._]
Ach, wunder....
[_Breaks off, rubs eyes, staring at frame._]
[+Teacher+ _and_ +Class+ _enter from the right, the_ +Youngest
Pupil+ _leading._]
+Youngest Pupil.+
Please, I want another look
At the Young Man with.... Why, he isn’t there!
+Teacher.+
Nonsense! Of course he’s there!
+Class.+
[_Echoing._]
Of course he’s there!
+Youngest Pupil.+
But, look!
+Teacher.+
He must be there! It says so here! In Baedeker!
+German Lady.+
[_Loyally, going to the left._]
Ach, Wunderschön!
+Teacher.+
[_Leading the way back, right._]
Come, come!
+Youngest Pupil.+
[_Lingering, unconvinced._]
He must have just stepped out!
[_The_ +Young Man+ _and the_ +Woman+ _rise from their
hiding-place._]
+Young Man with a Glove.+
So few there are
To whom we bear a real message.... Come!
In native Italy fullness of life
Awaits us! Oh, once more to be where first
We saw the light!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
The light saw us, you mean!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
One time were man and woman we, altho
Till now have I denied it, knew it not!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Ah, no, no, no!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Already feel you not
A quickening? A something here?
[_Hand on heart._]
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Puts up hands as if to ward off danger._]
Ah, no!
Have pity!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Come ... to life! Come back to life,
I should have said!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Heaven, be merciful!
For us there is no life--there never was!
What man and woman sat for us, long since
Are dust, their souls with God!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Then what are we?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Poor simulacra only, that reveal,
By grace of art, life to the living, yet
Have none ourselves. Half-lengths--’Tis all we are!--
Below the frame-line we are just inferred--
As Titian would have rendered us, as ’twere,
From waist to toe!--By lifelikeness beguiled,
If life’s forbidden fruit to taste we seek,
We perish!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Then, what woman meant you now?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Poor fool adoringly long hours who spends
Before you at her easel!
[_Pointing to_ +Laura’s+ _copy._]
+Young Man with a Glove.+
[_Laughs._]
Oh, ta, ta!
[_Examines copy._]
Ye shades of Titian, what a travesty!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
E’en as the call of life to you and me
To be forever blotted out would mean,
One step across the line, her world from ours
Dividing, for that girl spells madness!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
[_Shocked at the idea._]
Oh!
Though mortals rank a race inferior
To art-creations--
+Woman at her Toilet.+
I should say so!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Still,
Their suffrage ’tis on us confers our claim
To immortality! Sooner than harm
A hair on silly head of one, then, I
Could wish myself a landscape, seapiece, aye,
Truncated cherub, even! anything
But what I am!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Applauding._]
Oh, worthy of our School!
[_Voices are heard on the left._]
But, hark! Quick! Quick! Back to our frames!
[_The two hurriedly return to their places, the_ +Woman+ _going
to the right, the_ +Young Man+ _getting into his frame._]
[_The_ +Glove Young Man+ _enters from the right._]
+Glove Young Man.+
Laura! Hey, Laura!... Why, they said I sure
Should find her here! I must have lost my way
Again.
[+Gardien+ _passes through from left to right._]
Conductor!
+Gardien.+
Eh, m’sieur?
+Glove Young Man.+
Is this Saloon carre?
[_Mispronouncing._]
+Gardien.+
[_Enquiringly._]
M’sieur?
+Glove Young Man.+
Or words
To that effect?
+Gardien.+
[_Shrugs shoulders, deprecating inability to understand._]
M’sieur!
[_Passes on._]
+Glove Young Man.+
I give it up!
[_Sits, pushes hat on back of head, consults guide-book._]
+The Husband.+
[_Entering from the right, followed by the wife._]
We’ll cut the rest. We’ve seen
Enough to say we’ve seen them! And go get
A cup of tea, if decent tea is found
In Paris!
+The Wife.+
I should like a bun, if one
Can find one!
+The Husband.+
[_Dogmatically._]
Bun is a French word.
I’ve heard it frequently!
+The Wife.+
But bun in French
Does not mean English bun!
+The Husband.+
[_With finality._]
In English, French,--
In any language bun means bun! What else
Could bun mean, except bun--just bun!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Closes guide-book, rising._]
Since English doesn’t work
I’ll try my French! Ahem! Pardon, monsieur!
Comprenez-vous anglais?
[_Speaking laboriously._]
+The Husband.+
Certainly not!
How dare you ask me! Come!
[_Leads wife away, to the left._]
+Glove Young Man.+
I give it up!
[_Sinks back on bench._]
+Elderly Party.+
[_Entering from the left with_ +Young Woman+.]
They’re very fine,
No doubt, but give me cheerful art, like Pigs
In Clover, Dancing in a Barn. Or things
That make you cry. Last Days of Pompeii!
Pictures of common things, home-folks you know!
That’s my style!
+Young Woman.+
[_Protesting._]
Auntie! Shocking! This is ART!
+Glove Young Man.+
Guess I’ll try my French on this bunch!... Hem!
Parlez-vous Français, s’il vous plaît, Madame?
+Young Woman.+
[_Explaining to the_ +Elderly Party+ _in undertone._]
I think he’s asking you in French if you
Speak French!
+Elderly Party.+
[_Flustered, asks_ +Young Woman+.]
Do I speak French or do I not?
And how in French shall I tell him if I
Speak French or not?
+Young Woman.+
Leave him to me!
[_Gets out conversation manual._]
“Non, ma chere marraine, le soldat n’as pas avalé le tisonier, mais la femme du boulanger a un petit chien chinois.”
[_Slowly, reading._]
+Glove Young Man.+
Fine day, indeed, as you remark!... I give it up!
[_He is about to go, when the_ +Elderly Party+ _recognizes him._]
+Elderly Party.+
Ef it ain’t Charley Black!
+Young Woman.+
Why, so it is!
Why, Charley!
+Glove Young Man.+
Mrs. Johnson! Mandy! This
Is great!
[_They shake hands._]
+Elderly Party.+
What brings you here?
+Young Woman.+
ART, same as us,
Of course!
+Glove Young Man.+
Not on your life. For one thing, gloves.
I’m buyer for our firm, you know. And, next,
The usual thing.
+Young Woman.+
A girl!
+Glove Young Man.+
_The_ girl! She’s here
Somewhereabouts, messing with paint!
+Young Woman.+
Maybe
I know her. Reddish hair and rather plain?
+Glove Young Man.+
Hair auburn. Girl a peach!... Why, there she is!
Laura!
[_Looking toward the left._]
Laura, dear!
+Elderly Party.+
[_Making signs to_ +Young Woman+, _and going away, right._]
Two’s company.
+Young Woman.+
[_Following, looks back, appraising_ +Laura+.]
Distinctly red, and plain!
+Laura.+
[_Coldly._]
Charles, this is a surprise!
+Glove Young Man.+
Intended so!
But, say a joyful one!
+Laura.+
I--I--My breath
You’ve stolen!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Trying to kiss her._]
Sweetheart! Let me give it back!
+Laura.+
[_Repulsing him._]
So public!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Looking about._]
Not a soul in sight. Unless
You count that guy there!
[_Indicating portrait._]
+Laura.+
Mr. Black! I beg,
Insist, that you withdraw....
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Puzzled._]
What, guy?
+Laura.+
[_Shudders._]
The word,
Also your person, from this Presence!
+Glove Young Man.+
What
In thunder do you mean!
+Laura.+
[_Teeth on edge._]
Thunder, indeed!
[_She resumes her painting. Puzzled and discomfited, the_ +Glove
Young Man+ _sits on the bench._]
+Glove Young Man.+
[_After a pause._]
Delightful weather. Though a thunderstorm
Seems in the air!
[_Another pause._]
Not a bad-looking guy....
Beg pardon!
[_Rises and bows to the portrait._]
Individual!
And, from his sample there, he carries quite
As fine a line of gloves as I myself!
+Laura.+
[_Rises, shrieks, waving paint-brush._]
Creature!
+Glove Young Man.+
Referring to yours truly?
+Laura.+
Aye!
Begone!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Unable to believe it._]
Begone means Git? Skidoo?
+Laura.+
Translate
As pleases you, but do it!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Looks at her in silence, then turns to go, but suddenly changes
his mind._]
I’ll be hanged
If I.... What ails you, girl?
+Laura.+
I can’t explain.
+Glove Young Man.+
You loved me....
+Laura.+
Rather, thought I did!
+Glove Young Man.+
Nonsense!
You loved me well enough to promise--Yes,
You promised.
+Laura.+
[_Wildly._]
Spare me this remembrancing!
+Glove Young Man.+
What makes you talk so queerly!
+Laura.+
Who are you
To comprehend, were I to tell!
+Glove Young Man.+
You try!
Poetry-stuff’s not my long suit, but I
Can do a lot of comprehending! Fire
Away!...
[_Sits._]
Engagement’s off?
+Laura.+
It never was!
+Glove Young Man.+
What’s come between us? You’re the only girl
In all the world for me! And I am just
The same old Charley-boy you’ve always known!
+Laura.+
[_Hands over ears, shudders, then apostrophizes picture._]
Forgive, O Masterpiece, this squalid scene!
+Glove Young Man.+
Why, where does he come in?
+Laura.+
[_Takes a sudden resolution, and addresses_ +Glove Young Man+.]
The I erstwhile
You knew no longer am the I you see!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Considers this._]
I’m getting it! Go on!
+Laura.+
Into mine own
Came I, this very hour!
+Glove Young Man.+
Yea, verily!
Go right ahead!
+Laura.+
To me hath been vouchsafed
Behind the veil to glimpse, art’s face that screens
From gaze profane!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Airily._]
I haven’t an idea
Where we are bound for, but we’re on the way!
+Laura.+
To-day I start upon a pilgrimage!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Starts up._]
Where ... where’s your ticket taken to?
+Laura.+
[_Impressively._]
This spot!
+Glove Young Man.+
She’s crazy!
[_Falling back into seat._]
+Laura.+
Standing here, shall I be drawn
Across the border-line dividing art
From life, as such as you conceive it!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Unseen, mournfully._]
Oh!
[_Mournful echoes resound through the gallery._]
+Laura.+
[_Listens, a moment, puzzled, then continues._]
Absorbed, as ’twere, in yonder dusky shades.
[_Indicating portrait._]
Forth into sunlit groves the real I
Shall fare, and not alone! in Italy!
[_The mournful exclamations are repeated with intensity._]
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Wrought up to passion._]
She’s mad! This is your work, you villain, you!
[_Throws his gloves into the face of the portrait._]
[+Laura+ _shrieks wildly; cries of indignation from all the
pictures are heard. There is a flash of lightning, followed
by a loud thunder-clap. Then the_ +Young Man with a Glove+
_and the_ +Woman at her Toilet+ _are seen in the foreground,
together._]
+Woman at her Toilet.+
’Tis as I feared! Oh, save her!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
... And ourselves!
[_Together the two stand, arms upraised, appealing._]
+Young Man with a Glove+ _and_ +Woman at her Toilet+
O comrades! Ye Co-Masterpieces, here
Collected! In the sacred name of art
Avenge the insult that, offered to one,
Is offered to us all!
[_Cries from_ +Unseen Pictures+ _of “We will!”_]
Saints Michael, George,
Of Raphael....
+The Two Saints.+
Here! Here!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Works of Poussin--!
+Unseen Pictures.+
Here!
+Young Man with Gloves.+
Correggios! Michelangelos! Rembrandts!
Da Vincis! Rubens’! Antony Van Dycks!
Paolo Veronese! Rembrandts!
[_All answer to the roll-call._]
Help, in the name of Titian, and of art!
[_There is a vivid flash of lightning, followed by a terrific
thunder-clap. When the momentary darkness passes it is seen
that the_ +Young Man with a Glove+ _and the_ +Woman at her
Toilet+ _have disappeared;_ +Laura+ _is lying on the bench,
swooning, or asleep, while the_ +Glove Young Man+ _is in the
picture-pose, within the frame._]
+Glove Young Man.+
[_After a pause, breaking his picture-pose, addresses an
imaginary audience._]
Yes, it’s me all right,
The same old Charley-boy you know! I can’t explain
My present straitened circumstances, but
I’m quite aware how foolish I must look!
+Unseen Pictures.+
[_Menacingly, with a clash of swords._]
Hush!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Leaning forward, addresses them._]
Ladies, Gentlemen, and Landscapes!
This is an honor I did not expect!
But since ’tis thrust upon me....
+Unseen Pictures.+
Hush!
[_As before._]
+Glove Young Man.+
I won’t hush!... May I smoke?... Oh, very well!
If no one wants to play.... But just you wait!
[_Resumes picture-pose._ +Gardien+ _passes through, right to
left._]
Hey, Conductor! Stop this car! I want to get out! Conductor!
[+Gardien+ _passes on without noticing him. Pictures threaten as
before._ +Elderly Party+ _and_ +Young Woman+ _enter from the
right._]
+Elderly Party.+
I wonder how them two young courtin’ folks
Is gittin’ on!... Say, Mandy, don’t this look
Like Charley Black!
[_Staring at_ +Glove Young Man+.]
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Raising hat._]
Oh, Mrs. Johnson! Mandy! How-de-do!
Would you mind calling up a messenger?
Of course I’m doing this for pleasure, but....
+Elderly Party.+
It is his living image!
+Young Woman.+
[_Shocked._]
Charley Black,
Indeed? Why, Auntie, this is Art!
[_They go out, left._]
+Glove Young Man.+
I’m art,
Am I? We’ll see!
+Unseen Pictures.+
Hush!
[_The_ +Husband+ _and_ +Wife+ _enter from the left._]
+The Husband.+
[_Looking about._]
This is the room
We started from. We’ve lost our way again!
These galleries are wretchedly mapped out!
I shall report....
+Glove Young Man.+
Beg pardon! I myself
Have lost my way, and so if you....
+The Wife.+
My dear!
That portrait raised its hat to me!
+The Husband.+
What’s that?
How dare you, sir, take such a liberty!
[_Shaking his fist at the_ +Glove Young Man+.]
+The Wife.+
I think he wants to know the time!... Quarter
To five!
[_Consulting her watch, tells the_ +Glove Young Man+.]
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Groans._]
What, nearly time to close!
+The Wife.+
My dear,
He’s telling us it’s nearly time to close!
Most civil of him!
+The Husband.+
A disgrace to Art!
I should report the matter if I knew
To whom such matters are reported! Come!
[_Leading the_ +Wife+ _away to the right._]
+The Wife.+
[_Bowing politely to the_ +Glove Young Man+.]
Most civil!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Groans._ +Unseen Pictures+ _cry, “Hush!” He then shouts._]
Help! Help! Police!
[_Again the Pictures silence him. From the left the_ +German
Lady+ _returns, and from the right the_ +Youngest Pupil+.]
+Youngest Pupil.+
I want to see
If he’s come back!
[_The_ +German Lady+ _begins, “Ach Wunder--” but breaks off,
rubbing her eyes._]
+Youngest Pupil.+
Oh, it’s someone else!
+Teacher.+
You’re dreaming! It’s the same!
+Class.+
Of course it is!
+Youngest Pupil.+
He’s changed his clothes, then!
+Glove Young Man.+
Dear young lady, I
Am Charley Black. This is my business card.
If you would be so kind....
+Youngest Pupil.+
Oh! He’s alive!
+Teacher.+
He can’t be!
+Youngest Pupil.+
But he is! Aren’t you alive?
+Glove Young Man.+
I am, indeed; the livest ever. Though
That’s not exactly news to me!
+Youngest Pupil.+
He is!
He says he is himself!
+Teacher.+
[_Leading the_ +Youngest Pupil+ _away, right._]
He can’t be! If
He were ’twould say so here in Baedeker!
+Class.+
Of course!
+Glove Young Man.+
This grows monotonous!
[_Notices_ +German Lady+ _still gazing at him, puzzled._]
Although
Not introduced, if you would be so kind--
+German Lady.+
[_Shrieks, running away to the left._]
Ach, du lieber....
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Wearily._]
Gesundheit!
+German Lady.+
[_Returning, says with conviction._]
WUNDERSCHÖN!
[_Goes._]
+Glove Young Man.+
[_After a slight pause._]
I never was more highly entertained!
Yet one may have too much of a good thing.
Then, too, there’s business to attend to. So
If this distinguished company would drop
A hint how long the game will last--
[_It grows dark. From both sides pictures in their frames steal
forth, only their backs being presented to the audience. They
stand in a semicircle opposite the_ +Young Man+. _He bows
jauntily._]
Why, how-de-do!... I trust you like my looks!
[_It grows constantly darker. Mutterings of thunder are heard
from time to time, mingled with the clash of swords._]
Will someone kindly press the button, call
A waiter?... Or if any gentleman
Will lend his hat and half a dozen eggs,
I’ll make an omelette!... No?... Look here,
Fair play! How long am I in for: for life?
[_Pictures bow assent._]
No commutation for exemplary
Behavior, eh?
[_Pictures shake themselves as if saying no._]
... I move that you adjourn!
[_Pictures signify no._]
Oh, very well!
[_He whistles. The sword-clash grows louder._]
I see! Life’s short but art is long! Is that
Your motto?
[_Pictures signify assent._]
You intend to kill me?
[_Pictures assent._]
So!
The ayes would seem to have it! Go ahead!
Once in a lifetime only can one die!
And as an angel I would sooner be
The real article than just a sham,
Old, tarnished, cracked, and canvas-back, like--
[_There is a terrible clash, while the pictures seem to close
about the_ +Young Man+. _Suddenly the_ +Woman at her Toilet+
_runs in from the right, shrieking._]
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Spare him! Spare him to me!
+Glove Young Man.+
Good gracious! Who
Is this enthusiastic but somewhat
Imperfectly attired young female! Miss,
Your name escapes me, but ... my business card!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
As hostage let him live, to me enchained!
Price of the masterwork a mortal’s love
This day destroyed! I ask it in the name
Of Titian and of Art!
+Unseen Pictures.+
So be it!
+Others.+
Amen!
[_The Pictures in evidence retreat._]
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Come!
[+Glove Young Man+ _descends from frame._]
+Glove Young Man.+
Kindest thanks for timely help! But--who--?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Come forth into the world with me!
+Glove Young Man.+
Aren’t you
Afraid of taking cold?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Not while the sun is shining, and with you!
+Glove Young Man.+
Sunshine is so uncertain. If you had
A rag of fringe, a lambrequin, a sash,
To patch you up a bit! And then your hair--
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Am I not beautiful the way I am?
+Glove Young Man.+
Too beautiful by half!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
One cannot have
Too much of beauty! So all artists say!
+Glove Young Man.+
But my dear Miss ... or Madam, is it? I
Am not an artist! Such a thing--tap wood!
Has never happened in our family!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Your time has come! Not artist; work of art,
Like to myself, I’ll render you! Take off
Those hideous clothes!
+Glove Young Man.+
My goodness gracious me!
+Unseen Pictures.+
Do as she bids!
+Glove Young Man.+
How many and how much
Will satisfy the Louvre proprieties?
[_Reluctantly preparing to remove his coat._ +Laura+, _who has
wakened gradually, now sits up with a gasp._]
+Laura.+
Why, Charley Black! What would your mother say!
+Glove Young Man.+
If only it were mother!... Do you mind
Turning your back?
+Laura.+
How dare you!
+Glove Young Man.+
Oh, I dare
Do all that may become a work of art!
Who dares do more is none!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Oh, bravely said,
And worthy of our School!
[_Cries of “Hear, hear!” from_ +Unseen Pictures+.]
+Laura.+
[_Noticing the_ +Woman+ _for the first time, advances on her._]
You scandalous
Young Masterpiece--or, rather, Mistresspiece!
Go right back to the frame where you belong!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Never! Take you my place! With him I go,
When he is decently undressed!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Ruefully._]
I’ll wreathe myself in smiles!
+Laura.+
You will, will you! Oh, Charley Black!
What shall I do!
[_Bursting into tears._]
+Young Man with a Glove.+
[_Suddenly appears at her side._]
Absorbed in yon dusk shades,
Emerge ... and not alone! in sunlit groves
In Italy!
+Laura.+
[_Shrieks._]
How dare you! Get right back
Into your frame! Charley, put on your coat
And come with me!
+Unseen Pictures.+
Do as he bids!
+Laura.+
I won’t!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Fear not!
Although a chromo, as compared to us,
Ill-dressed, pretentious, modern at its worst,
Your hair is not unTitianesque, your lines
Susceptible of change!
+Laura.+
You horrid thing!
Charley, why don’t you knock him down?
+Woman at her Toilet.+
We waste the daylight! Come!
[_Trying to lead the_ +Glove Young Man+ _to the right._]
+Unseen Pictures.+
Do as she bids!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Ruefully, to_ +Laura+.]
Sorry, my dear! This lady seems to have
A lien upon me!--At your service, ma’am!
We’ll take a taxi to the nearest shop,
Outfitted with a raincoat, rubber shoes,
Hairpins and usual et ceteras
You won’t feel quite so, well, conspicuous
In Paris!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Wonted to the gaze am I
Of the admiring throng! As breath of life
To me their plaudits are! O welcome chance
On exhibition so to place myself!
Then, come!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
And you, into the background thrust
A hundred years or so haply may learn
Humbly, upon your knees, the rudiments
Of all you glibly chatter now about!
+Unseen Pictures.+
[_With a menacing clash._]
Do as they bid!
+Laura.+
I won’t! I’d sooner die!
Charley, forgive me! It is you I love,
While as for you--You cinquecento dude--
[_There is a terrible sword clash, followed by lightning and
violent thunder. When the darkness clears the_ +Young Man with
a Glove+ _is seen in his original attitude within his frame,
while the_ +Woman at her Toilet+ _has disappeared._ +Laura+ _is
composedly gathering up her painting materials, the_ +Glove
Young Man+, _fully equipped, assisting her._]
+Glove Young Man.+
Storm’s over.
[_Picking up the easel._]
+Laura.+
[_Looking at her study of the picture._]
’Tisn’t really good!
+Glove Young Man.+
[_Admiring it._]
Oh, yes,
It is, though!
+Laura.+
[_Comparing it with the original._]
No. I know enough to know
What I don’t know! Still, I will keep it as
A souvenir.
[_Dreamily._]
+Glove Young Man.+
Of what?
+Laura.+
[_As if waking, laughs._]
I do not know.
Charley, he looks a little bit like you!
+Glove Young Man.+
Well, I can stand it, if he can! This way!
[_Leading_ +Laura+ _to the right._]
I saw a picture of a red-haired girl....
Like you!
[_They laugh, and kiss._]
+Gardien.+
[_Passing through._]
On ferme!
+Glove Young Man.+
Where would you like to spend
The honeymoon: in Italy?
+Laura.+
N-no!
That’s too exciting. Just some quiet place!
+Glove Young Man.+
Why not Niagara?
+Laura.+
[_Agreeing._]
Niagara!
+Gardien.+
[_Again passing through._]
On ferme! On ferme!
[_The lovers kiss again and pass out on the right._]
+Gardien.+
[_Again passing through._]
On ferme!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
[_Advances stealthily a few steps from the right._]
Signore.... Our ruse succeeded!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
So it seems,
Madonna!
+Woman at her Toilet.+
Fare you well, then!
+Young Man with a Glove.+
Fare you well!
[_The_ +Woman at her Toilet+ _disappears on the right._ +The
Young Man with a Glove+ _becomes a picture again. The light
fades. The_ +Gardien+, _again passing through, cries, “On
ferme!” on which the curtains are drawn._]
HIS MOTHER’S FACE
* *
_Picture, Une Fête Champêtre, Jean Antoine Watteau (1684-1721)._
HIS MOTHER’S FACE
+Characters+: +Jean Antoine Watteau+ _in his last hour, a_
+Sister+, _and a_ +Boy+.
_The stage is divided from right to left by a screen which,
when only the forefront is illuminated, represents the wall
of a room. When light is thrown on the back scene it serves
as a misty veil that lends an effect of illusion to the
pictures there presented. These pictures, groupings from the
well-known canvases of Watteau, are supposed to be conjured up
in the fancy of the dying artist, the spectator sharing his
super-normal vision. The_ +Sister+ _and the_ +Boy+, _however,
who are ministering to him, betray no consciousness whatever
that the room has ceased to be bounded by a wall._
_The curtains, parting, disclose a simply furnished room. At
one side, toward the front, on a couch lies_ +Watteau+, _the_
+Sister+ _and the_ +Boy+ _in attendance on him._
+Watteau.+
[_Rousing himself._]
Sister, brush and palette bring me.
Play, Jeannot, on your guitar.
While I paint, some ballad sing me.
Faring on a journey far,
Sieur Watteau, Academician,
For one sitter’s portrait calls
On remembrance, art-magician,
Ere the final darkness falls.
[_The_ +Sister+ _having complied with his request, he makes an
effort to work._]
+The Boy.+
[_Sings to his guitar._]
_Days of Liesse! Days of Liesse!
Season of wreathèd lovers, song, and spring!
Come, warm me with your old-time tenderness,
Before my soul takes wing!_
[_The wall at the back of the room seems to dissolve, and, as if
in a dream, appear phantasmagorial groups of Watteau Cavaliers
and Ladies, in a garden presided over by a statue of Venus.
Exclaiming, the artist moves, as if to advance toward the
vision, then sinking back, waves it away._]
+Watteau.+
Gallants, dames, of courtly fashion,
Butterflies of ballet corps,
Airy forms of painted passion,
Pass! Binds me your spell no more!
[_The vision fades._]
+The Boy.+
[_Sings to his guitar._]
_Enchanted Isle! Enchanted Isle!
Who has not known your lure when youth is fair?
But, of all barques that seek ye this long while,
What one has anchored there!_
+Watteau.+
For Cythera not embarking--
Ah, how oft I’ve made the start!--
Back to Valenciennes I’m harking,
Home that holds my Flemish heart!
In a simple tiler’s cottage
Fronting on the market-square,
Spinning, mending, making pottage,
Praying, bides my mother there!
[_He paints a little. The_ +Sister+ _moves softly about the room,
ministering to his comfort, while the_ +Boy+ _plays a few
measures. Then, with a reminiscent smile_, +Watteau+ _pauses in
his work and speaks again._]
Oh, those merry Saturnalia,
In the reign of St. Pansard,
Clad in Carnival regalia,
Then at Easter, dying hard!
And, neath Abbey walls monastic,
Gilles, Cassandra, gay Margot,
Mezzetin of trick fantastic--
These are the old friends I know!
+The Boy.+
[_Sings to his guitar._]
_Oh, Valenciennes! Oh, Valenciennes!
Homing, my heart seeks yours at set of sun
To join the buoyant women, stalwart men,
Who dance, their day’s work done!_
[_Again the wall dissolves, and a vision appears, this time of
Flemish peasants dancing, as in the picture La Vraie Gaieté.
Then follow Gilles, and his companions of the Strolling Italian
Comedians; Cassandra, Margot, Mezzetin, Pantaloon. Extending
his arms toward these, the artist exclaims with joy. When
the vision fades he sinks back on his couch with a sigh of
satisfaction. The_ +Sister+, _who has been sitting quietly
watching him, rises._]
+Watteau.+
[_Looks from the_ +Sister+ _to a crucifix on the side-wall, then
to her again._]
Symbol of the Crucifixion,
Sister, now I fain would kiss!
[_The_ +Sister+ _brings him the crucifix, but in the act of
taking it, the artist pauses, his eye arrested by the crudity
of its workmanship, and he pushes it away with a gesture of
repulsion._]
Ah, there lies no benediction
In such travesty as this!
[_With a gentle smile, as of one humoring a child, the_ +Sister+
_replaces the sacred symbol. The_ +Boy+, _meantime, plays a
few soft, desultory measures. Picking up his brush, with it
the artist outlines a cross in the air, then again essays to
paint. After a futile stroke or so, however, his nerveless hand
drops to his side. Then, gathering his faculties for a supreme
effort, he speaks, slowly, but distinctly._]
Sieur Watteau, at thirty-seven,
Decorate by royal grace,
Leaves his master-work to Heaven,
Just--my dear--old--mother’s--face!
[_The brush drops from his hand as his head sinks forward, then
back on the pillow. The watching_ +Sister+ _makes the sign of
the cross._]
+The Boy.+
[_Sings to his guitar._]
_In Valenciennes, in Valenciennes
Players no more frequent the market-place,
And I to Heaven now must turn, as then
To see my mother’s face!_
[_Slowly, noiselessly, the curtains are drawn._]
A GAINSBOROUGH LADY
* *
_A Christmas Masque._
_Picture, Study for a Portrait (The Duchess of Devonshire), by Thomas Gainsborough (1727-1788)._
_These verses are reprinted by permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons from Scribner’s Magazine for January, 1902._
A GAINSBOROUGH LADY
+Characters+: _A_ +Gainsborough Lady+ _in a picture. Also a
Gainsborough_ +Gentleman+, _supposed to be the subject of the
portrait which is the_ +Lady’s+ _next-door neighbor on the
wall of a gallery. As the_ +Gentleman+ _remains invisible and
enforcedly silent throughout the scene his proximate presence is
inferred solely by the_ +Lady’s+ _addressing her discourse to
him._
+The Lady+, _suitably framed, is revealed, but in deep shadow. Soon a
clock in the distance musically strikes the hour of twelve, upon
which a pallid moonbeam, gradually becoming bright, falls on the
picture. When this is fully illuminated the_ +Lady+ _slowly comes
to life._
+The Lady.+
’Twas prophesied
Some Christmas dawning,
’Twixt midnight and morning,
Would speech to us restore!
[_She peers from her frame about the gallery._]
My husband-lover, do you live
Below?
Or upward soar?
If he were near I’d know; he was so talkative!
[_Sagaciously wagging her head._]
Withal, the sweetest soul that ever sinned and died!
“Gad’s life”
[_reminiscently she strikes the attitude of a connoisseur_],
“now stab my vitals if they ain’t
A credit to the artist’s paint!”
(’Twas Colley Cibber spoke!) “So time will show!”
The day we sat for Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!
[_Looking farther from her frame first to one side, then the
other, on her right she evidently recognizes her neighbor, for
she utters an exclamation of delight, while a tender smile
lights her face._]
Then it _is_ you!
How I have wondered--!
After being sundered
A century--or more!
[_Evidently the_ +Gentleman+ _would have liked to set her right,
for she cuts him off sharply._]
Oh, yes! insist on those odd years!
Altho’
Touching that score,
Your own accounts, my dear, were always in arrears!
’Twas monstrous shocking how your debts were overdue!
[_The_ +Gentleman+ _would seem to wish to deny this._]
But, if you’ll let me speak for once, ’tis quaint
To spring to life from canvas, paint,
And be just boy and girl, just belle and beau,
As when we sat for Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!
Sometimes, indeed,
In sunbeam’s glinting,
I have said, “He’s squinting,
“That gentleman next door!
“Pleased with my eyes, perchance, my shape,
“Some beau,
“Perhaps some bore!
“Who would a picture-gallery acquaintance scrape!”
[_The_ +Gentleman+ _probably would like to protest “’Pon my
life!” but she checks him._]
Now, now, you know you cannot innocency plead!
You know as well as I you were no saint!
A man of flesh and blood, not paint!
[_The_ +Gentleman’s+ _eyes must be rolling, for the_ +Lady+
_waves him back, as it were, to herself, while virtuously
drawing her ’kerchief closer about her._]
Yon frescoed nymphs were never taught to sew
As we who sat for Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!
It seems, then, dear,
Long ages flitting,
Here we’ve hung unwitting!
(I trying to ignore
The flirt presumer by my side!)
When, lo!
One moonbeam frore
Quickens our portraits into life, bridegroom and bride!--
’Twas God who joined us living, dead, the auctioneer!
But hearts beat on as hearts, behind attaint
Of coating varnish, garish paint!
Love can a fairer immortality bestow
Than that we sat for Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!
What matters age!
Since fortune chancy
Yields this hour, in fancy
We’ll live the sweet life o’er--
Though each be but poor pictured ghost
A-row!--
When you shed gore
To win the season’s belle, the town and tavern toast!
(My dear, I’m modish still! This hat is all the rage!)
You fought!
[_Her change of tone indicates that the_ +Gentleman+ _would
disclaim this._]
You did! That duel was no feint!
’Twas crimson blood, not crimson paint,
You rogue! and crimson wine you caused to flow,
All in the days of Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!
Do you recall
That sweet pursuing,
Fleeing game of wooing?--
The night this frock I wore?--
[_She listens. Faint strains of phantasmal music are heard._]
It echoes in remembrance yet....
High, low!
We hold the floor!
[_She makes a deep curtsey toward the_ +Gentleman+, _then takes
steps to the music._]
The violins play Boccherini’s minuet,
And you are sparking me at Lady Betty’s ball!
These hands poured wine, prepared confectioned daint
(Your heart and stomach were not paint!)
Next time you called ... these lips did not say No!...
All in the days of Gainsborough, some hundred years ago!
I won’t deny
That you were trying!
[_Obviously the_ +Gentleman+ _would protest._]
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