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Behind a Watteau 
 Picture 
 
 A Fantasy in Verse, in One Act 
 
 By 
 ROBERT EMMONS ROGERS 
 
 All rights to Behind a Watteau Picture are reserved, 
 and performances, whether professional or amateur, may 
 be given only on payment of royalty. The professional 
 rights, including little theatres and drama societies which 
 give a season of plays, are in the hands of Frank Conroy, 
 director ; of the Greenwich Village Theatre, Sheridan 
 Square, New York City, to whom application should be 
 made. Applications for amateur production by schools, 
 clubs or societies, should be made to Professor Robert E. 
 Rogers, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Cambridge, 
 Mass. The royalty for amateur production is ten dollars 
 for each performance. 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 WALTER H. BAKER & CO. 
 191S 
 
^'^'^ 9/v 
 
 .3 ^^\ 
 
 Copyright, 1918, by Robert Emmons Rogers 
 as author and proprietor 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 AUG -! 1918 ■ 
 
 ©Ci.O 5008^ 
 
^ 
 
 To My Wife 
 MARIE BAER ROGERS 
 
Behind a Watteau Picture 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 A Museum Guide. 
 
 A Watteau Marquise. 
 A Watteau Marquis. 
 A Watteau Poet. 
 
 The Melancholy Pierrot. 
 Harlequin. 
 Columbine. 
 A Fat Pierrot. 
 
 Four Chinese Lantern Bearers. 
 Two Negro Grave-Diggers. 
 Two Lutanists. 
 
 [vii] 
 
Notes for Amateur Producers 
 
 Behind a Watteau Picture was first given by amateurs 
 of The Artists' Guild of St. Louis under the direction of 
 David Carb, in November, 1916. 
 
 The first professional production was by Frank Conroy, 
 at the Greenwich Village Theatre, New York City, in 
 November, 1917. The fantasy was on the opening bill 
 of the theatre and ran for seven weeks, with scenery by 
 Hewlett and Basing and special music by W. Franke 
 Harling. 
 
 Although the New York production was elaborate, the 
 success of the first attempt at St. Louis proved con- 
 clusively that the piece can be given by amateurs on a 
 restricted stage. A few suggestions may be helpful. 
 
 The same setting, gateway and sky, may be used for 
 both scenes. The first scene is set far forward and en- 
 closed in a large gilt frame. On the lowering of the 
 lights at the end of Scene i, the picture frame disappears 
 and the gateway with its sky drop is moved to the back 
 of the stage where, with the smaller set scenery and 
 properties, it does for the rest of the play. The play 
 closes on Pierrot's song without the change back to the 
 picture indicated in the text. 
 
 Scenery and costumes need not be expensive but 
 should approximate in color and shade the pastel twilight 
 tones of a Watteau picture. The Watteau characters 
 should wear the costumes of his pictures ; the Pierrot 
 group, their traditional clothes ; Chinese and Negroes 
 should be brilliant and bizarre in the new manner. 
 [ix] 
 
Both productions have used an intermittent musical 
 obligate. Mr. Harling's music, written for a string 
 quartette, may be procured on appUcation to Mr. Conroy. 
 Societies making a less elaborate production will doubt- 
 less prefer the device used in St. Louis, a thoroughly 
 competent pianist improvising according to the action. 
 Characteristic themes for character and action, taken 
 from well-known composers of repute, may be worked 
 out during rehearsal. The verses for the duel-minuet 
 were written to the music of Jupiter's Minuet in the last 
 scene of Offenbach's Orpheus Aux Enfers. 
 
 The spirit of the play should be that of poetic fantasy 
 rather than melodrama. Players should be chosen for 
 their grace and ease and particularly for their abihty to 
 speak rhymed verse skillfully. Care should be taken 
 not to strive for •' naturalness " at the expense of cadence 
 and rhyme. Beauty of diction, of grouping, of color and 
 lighting . . . these are the essentials. 
 
 R. E. R. 
 
 [X] 
 
{^Bill of the original professional performance) 
 
 The Greenwich Village Theatre 
 
 Fourth Street and Seventh Avenue, New York 
 BILL OF THE PLA YS 
 
 BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 A Fantasy in Two Scenes by Robert E. Rogers, with 
 Incidental Music by W. Franke Harling 
 
 A Guide Mr. Eugene Ward 
 
 A Watteau Marquise - Miss Margaret Fareleigh 
 
 A Watteau Marquis - - - - Mr. Meltzer 
 A Watteau Poet - - - - Mr. Everett Glass 
 A Fat Pierrot - - - - Mr. Strawbridge 
 
 Harlequin Mr. Macaulay 
 
 First Lantern Bearer - - Mr. Remo Bufatw 
 Second Lantern Bearer - - Mr. McDonald 
 Third Lantern Bearer - Mr. David Pennington 
 Fourth Lantern Bearer - Mr. Leojiard Brooke 
 First Grave Digger - - - - Mr. Lapham 
 Second Grave Digger - - Mr. George Weston 
 
 Columbine Miss Fania Marinoff 
 
 A Melancholy Pierrot - - Mr, Sydney Carlyle 
 
 The piece has been staged by Mr. Conroy. The settings 
 have been designed by Messrs. Hewlett and Basing, and 
 executed at the Hewlett-Basing Studios. The costumes 
 have been designed by Mr. Robert E. Locher. 
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS 
 
 A Cofnedy in One Act by Arthur Schiitzler 
 Translated by Charles Henry Meltzer 
 
 "The Festival of Bacchus" has been staged under the 
 direction of Mr. Roland Young. The setting is by Messrs. 
 Hewlett and Basing. 
 
 EFFICIENCY 
 
 A Play in One Act by Robert H. Davis and 
 
 Perley Poore Sheehan 
 
 « Efficiency " has been staged by Mr. Conroy. The setting 
 
 has been designed by Mr. John Wenger and executed by 
 
 Messrs. Hewlett and Basing. 
 
PLEASE NOTICE 
 
 The professional stage-rights in this play are strictly reserved 
 by the author. Applications for its use should be addressed 
 to Frank Coxroy, Greenwich Village Theatre, Sheridan 
 Square, New York City. 
 
 Attention is called to the penalties provided by the Copyright 
 Law of the United States of America in force July I, 1909, for 
 any infringement of his rights, as follows : 
 
 Shc. 28. That any person who wilfully and for profit shall infringe any 
 Copyright secured by this Act, or who shall knowingly and wilfully aid 
 or abet such infringement, shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor, and 
 upon conviction thereof shall be punished by imprisonment for not ex- 
 ceeding one year or by a fine of not less than one hundred dollars, or both, 
 at the discretion of the court, 
 
 Shc. 29. That any person who, with fraudulent intent, shall insert or 
 impress any notice of Copyright required by this Act, or words of the 
 same purport, in or upon any uncopyrighted article, or with fraudulent in- 
 tent shall remove or alter the copyright notice upon any article duly copy- 
 righted shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, punishable by a fine of not less 
 than one hundred dollars and not more than one thousand dollars. 
 
Behind a Watteau Picture 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 A shallow front scene with back drop, the whole 
 set in a great gilt picture frame, as if it were 
 a painting. Four figures, the Watteau people, 
 are posed before a rather high wall, in the 
 center of which is a great, double, gilt-grilled 
 gate, of fantastic pattern. At right and left, 
 on this side of the wall, two tall, slim, black 
 cypresses. Over the wall, to the left center, 
 the upper branches of a peach tree. The 
 wall is gray and mossy. Above, an emerald- 
 green sky . . . all very flat and unreal, 
 as if painted. The figures are posed stiff 
 and still. They are all in the loose silk frills 
 and ruffles of Watteau's paintings. The 
 Marquise sits on a little folded stool, right 
 center, lax, head in hand. The Marquis, 
 half kneeling, to her right, is kissing her 
 hand. At the other side the Poet, lounging 
 
 in 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 at her feet, fingering a guitar. At far right 
 a little turhaned negro with lap dog. The 
 whole effect shoidd he that of one of those 
 languid arrangements of Watteau's. 
 From the left comes a typical Museum Guide in 
 gray imiform, with a pointer. He repeats 
 in a rapid, professional monotone: 
 
 Guide. 
 
 The next picture in the collection, 
 Ladies and gentlemen, 
 Is one of the masterpieces 
 Of the French School of the Bood-war 
 Entitled 
 
 " La Markeese Ong-wee-ay "... 
 In English, " The Bored Markeese." 
 Painted in 1709 
 By Jhong Ant-wong Watto. 
 At the express command of 
 Madame de Montespan 
 Mistress of Looey Katorze, 
 For the Palace of Versales. 
 Please note the chiaroscuro, 
 The mastery of color and 
 The fineness of the brush-work. . . , 
 [2] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Also, the bored expression on the lady's face. 
 
 Considered very fine 
 
 By the late John Ruskin. 
 
 It is worth $75,000 
 
 And is a companion piece to 
 
 " The Lovesick Peer-ro " 
 
 In the Loover, Paris, France. 
 
 He moves toward the right. 
 
 The next picture in the collection . . . 
 
 Exit. The music rises high and shrill 
 in derision, drowning his voice. 
 Around the edge of the picture, to 
 the left, creeps Harlequin, spangled 
 and black visored. He passes in 
 front of picture, laughs, waves his 
 hat at it thrice, then follows Guide 
 out, leaping mockingly. At once 
 the figures in the painting begin to 
 move, and the orchestra takes up 
 the tune to which the Poet is sing- 
 ing. 
 
 Poet. 
 There is a garden where 
 Love lies beneath the moon, 
 
 [3] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Golden and rose and fair, 
 Love ... in a swoon. 
 Lads full of hardihood, 
 Flee when you hear her call. 
 Love bringeth nought of good 
 Over Death's wall. 
 
 The Poet lays down his guitar. 
 
 Lady. 
 " Love bringeth nought of good 
 Over Death's wall." 
 How very fine that is . . . how true ? 
 
 Poet. 
 'Twas but a song I made for you, 
 Tender as twilight, sweet as your grace. . . . 
 Lady, to look upon your face 
 Were more than song or poetry. 
 
 Marquis. 
 To kiss your hand were song enough for me. 
 
 Lady. 
 I am so weary of these days 
 And these long nights. . . * 
 Have you no antic plays, 
 No maskings or delights 
 
 [4] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 To make me laugh again? 
 
 No human tongue or pen 
 
 Can tell how all the whole wide world 
 
 Wearies me . . . wearies me! 
 
 Poet. 
 
 I have another song to sing, 
 Ballade of Ladies Loved and Dead, 
 Sweet rhymes unto sweet music wed. 
 
 Lady. 
 I pray you, do not sing. 
 
 Marquis. 
 
 Or shall we improvise a play 
 
 A merry garden comedy? 
 
 You shall be soubrette, Lady ... we 
 
 Clowns, and make mummery. 
 
 Lady. 
 
 Ah, no ... no songs nor plays shall ever 
 
 woo me, 
 For I am weary of all common play. . . , 
 Have you no novelties to offer to me, 
 Who hate the sight of day? 
 [5] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Have you no heart to go adventuring, 
 Under the stars to go 
 Seeking the other-worldly magic thing 
 Few men may know? 
 
 Poet. 
 Lady, lead on . . . and we will run 
 Over the hills of yesterday 
 On to the mountains of the moon, 
 The valleys of the sun. 
 
 Land where midnight reigns at noon. . . . 
 Tally-ho . . . lead away, lead away ! 
 
 Lady. 
 Slowly. 
 There is no magic far away 
 Stronger than magic now and here. 
 This ancient wall might hide the kingdoms of 
 
 Cathay, 
 This quaint and crooked gate 
 That creaks so near 
 
 Might bar us out of fairylands that wait 
 Adventurers whose hearts are gay 
 And debonair. 
 
 The Poet goes and peers in, shaking his head. 
 [6] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Poet 
 Alas, no, Lady, nought within, 
 Save an old garden, old and thin, 
 Ungathered roses. 
 Poplars dying, 
 
 A stagnant pool in star-shine lying . . , 
 There are all that the gate encloses. 
 
 The Marquis is obviously impatient. 
 
 Marquis. 
 Come away. Lady. . . . We can sing and 
 
 feast . . . 
 Dance, if you will. 
 Or play at cards at least. 
 The evening is young still. 
 
 Poet. 
 
 Not heeding. 
 
 Who knows, Marquise, but you are right ? 
 That here beyond this wall . . . 
 Hidden from sight 
 
 But quick to answer should we call . . * 
 Lie all romance and magic, life and death. 
 Adventure. . . . In a breath. 
 All you desire, who are sick of all, 
 Say . . . shall I call? 
 [7] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 She makes an eager gesture of assent. The 
 Poet looks in. 
 Sleeping garden . . . arise, look out ! 
 Wake in the star-shine, wake and stir . . . 
 There are adventurers hereabout. 
 Wake . . . O wake . , . for a sight of 
 
 Her! 
 (Hark! did you hear the fountain stir?) 
 Night-blooms, open ! Nightingale, sing ! 
 (Was that the poplar whispering?) 
 Sleepy folk, drowsy folk, couched within, 
 Open the gate ... we would come in ! 
 
 Pause. Then a sudden scurry of 
 guitar music, as if wind-borne. As 
 the four look at each other, sud- 
 denly at the gate appears a Colum- 
 bine, a slim and lovely child all rose 
 and gold, pressed against the bars, 
 stretching her arms through in en- 
 treaty. To her comes the visored 
 Harlequin . . . tears her from 
 the gate and drags her out of sight. 
 The guitars sound more loudly, then 
 die away. 
 
 [8] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Poet. 
 Eagerly,- 
 
 Here is Romance for us, Lady. What ho ! 
 
 Open . . . open, and let us in. 
 
 Although the Marquis tries to dis- 
 suade her, the Lady goes to the 
 gate and pulls the bell-chain which 
 sounds inside, cracked and jangling. 
 At sound of hell, enter from right — 
 not inside the wall hut outside — a 
 very fat Pierrot, all in white, with 
 hig green umhrella and a market 
 basket on his arm. He lumbers in 
 with a queer, dancing gait, regard- 
 less of the four who draw back and 
 gaze in astonishment at him; puts 
 a big key in the gate, and swings it 
 open. Dusk within. As he is about 
 to go in, the Marquise speaks to 
 him and he whirls about like a 
 frightened rabbit. 
 
 Lady. 
 Pray, ere you close it. 
 May we go in for a moment . . . and look? 
 
 [9] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Fat Pierrot. 
 'Tis not my garden. I am the cook. 
 
 Lady. 
 Just one look, then, if nobody knows it. 
 
 Fat Pierrot. 
 You will not like it there. 
 Inside 'tis not a pretty place. 
 Only a garden, all deserted . . . bare . . . 
 Neglected for a long, long space. 
 I'm not the master . . . I'm the cook. 
 I dare not let you venture in. 
 
 Marquis.] 
 Practically. 
 
 But here is gold 
 
 To sweeten your sin. 
 
 Let us but look. 
 
 Do as you're told. 
 
 Only a glimpse, cook . . . 
 
 Look at him grin ! 
 
 Fat Pierrot. 
 In great perturbation. 
 Tisn't my garden. It is very queer. 
 Strange people wander here. . . * 
 
 [lO] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Even in moonlight it is sad and old. 
 Strange people dwell within. . . * 
 
 Marquis. 
 Let us but look. 
 
 Lady. 
 Do as you're told. 
 
 Poet. 
 Only a glimpse, cook . . . 
 Look at him grin ! 
 
 Fat Pierrot. 
 Well . . . just a moment then . . . but 
 
 never say 
 I didn't warn you . . v 
 'Tis a deadly place ! 
 
 Marquis. 
 Melodramatically. 
 Fat cook, we scorn you ! 
 
 Lady.^ 
 Did you see his face ? 
 
 Poet. 
 Lady, the gate stands wide. 
 Dare you to lead the way ? 
 
 Takes her hand. 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Lady. 
 "Awed. 
 
 This is a strange and magic gate 
 
 We venture past 
 
 Into this garden where Dusk holds her state. 
 
 Hold fast my hand. Hold fast ! 
 
 Creep softly, breathless with delight 
 
 Like daring children. Come . . . 
 
 Hold tight . . . hold tight ! 
 
 The four creep in with exaggerated 
 caution and are lost in the dusk. 
 The Negro Boy looks in once, then 
 picks up his guitar and lap-dog and 
 runs off rapidly, right. The Cook 
 Pierrot, with despairing waggling 
 gestures, follows in fatly. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 The wall fades in darkness. When it lifts we 
 are inside the garden. The other side of the 
 wall is at the hack, with the gate toward the 
 left. One of the cypresses is seen over the 
 wall in the right hand hack corner. The 
 other is missing. At the right one goes up 
 [12] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 some low broad steps to a terrace out of 
 sight; at the foot the steps are flanked by 
 gray, crumbling, moss-covered classic statues. 
 At the left the garden-wall, out of sight, is 
 masked by thick high rose-bushes in bloom. 
 In front of them facing the terrace is a long 
 low curving stone seat on a raised step of 
 stone. Toward left center a peach tree 
 trained against the wall makes against the 
 flat green evening sky a delicate, not too 
 thick, silhouette of twig and leaf, somehow 
 formal and unreal. On the right above the 
 wall the open sky is seen. Under this clear 
 space a few steps, unobtrusive, go up the 
 wall-side to its flat top. There is ivy on the 
 wall. Rather luxuriant and neglected shrubs 
 and flowers are about and a weather-worn 
 statue or two of soft stone. To right and 
 back of center, almost under the wall, is a 
 half finished grave with earth thrown up 
 about it. All is in a green dusk. There has 
 been no pause in the music. As the light 
 goes on the four file in through the gate, one 
 after another, but hand in hand, at a quick- 
 ening pace. The Lady, who is leading, 
 [13] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 moves faster and faster and in a circle^ until 
 she finally has them all in a sort of ring 
 around a rosy. Just inside the gate the Fat 
 Pierrot stands unquiet and peering off right 
 with scared face. 
 
 Lady. 
 To-night we are children . . ^ 
 Gayest of children, 
 Dancing, dancing 
 In an old Garden . . . 
 Round and round and round ! 
 
 The Men. 
 Rapidly. 
 
 Round and round and round and round, 
 
 Ring around a rosy ! 
 
 Suddenly the Lady breaks away and 
 
 the dance stops abruptly, all staring 
 
 at her. She looks about nervously. 
 
 Poet. 
 What is the matter ? Why are you pale ? 
 
 Lady. 
 This is no place to dance, my dears ! 
 This is a strange, strange corner of the world, 
 No place to dance. . . . 
 
 [14] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Poet. 
 There is a sudden wind from the gate, 
 Blowing me cold. 
 
 Lady. 
 Cold . . . and afraid. 
 Shut the gate, shut the gate, 
 Then we will dance again. 
 The Poet pushes the gate together violently. 
 
 Fat Pierrot. 
 Softly . . . softly . . . 
 Lest the gate creak ! 
 
 Marquis.:. 
 Looking about idly. 
 What a strange garden. 
 Deserted and old. 
 
 Poet. 
 The world passes by and forgets it. 
 
 Fat Pierrot. 
 Your pardon ! 
 But pray do not speak 
 Over a whisper, or we are all lost ! 
 [15] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Lady. 
 Poor garden ! Where the wind seems always cold 
 And age-old cypresses keep their watch. 
 The walls are gray and green with mould. . . . 
 
 Poet. 
 The very roses droop as if with frost. . . . 
 Brr ! I'm cold, too ! 
 
 Marquis. 
 And I ! 
 
 Poet. 
 It is a chill 
 
 That creeps into the heart and makes it still. 
 
 Lady. 
 True ! So I feel it in my heart. 
 
 Fat Pierrot. 
 Now you have seen it . . . pray depart. 
 Go quickly. Here it is not well. 
 
 Marquis. 
 What a strange stoiy might this tell ! 
 This garden, made for moonshine and delight, 
 For lutes and lovers ... on a summer 
 
 night . . . 
 Now left so empty and so spiritless. 
 [i6] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Lady. 
 It seems profane to come here in this dress, 
 In these gay frills, this frou-frou of soft silk. 
 
 Poet 
 Inspired. 
 
 This is a garden of the forgotten past . . . 
 
 Shadows, shadows everywhere 
 
 Of little ladies who were fair, 
 
 Whose beauty might not last. 
 
 Lady. 
 Catching up the thought in the same pensive 
 mood. 
 Here, under moonshine . . . oh, so white . . . 
 Their lovers wooed them tenderly. 
 Begging them to requite 
 
 Their hot young passions. Can you see ? . . . 
 Here, there, beneath the wall, 
 Beside the fountain and the pool 
 Blown into spray by night winds cool. 
 Can you not see their shadows pass and flee ? 
 Can you not hear their false, light voices call ? 
 
 Poet. 
 Shade of each gallant boy and maid, 
 Provoking girls and girls afraid . . • 
 
 [17] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 And girls whose hot hearts risked their all 
 For one night of such gallantry. 
 This is a garden of dead happiness, 
 Of vanished love and folly, where the moon 
 Peers in o' nights . . . wistful . . . regret- 
 ful. . . . Soon 
 Veiling her face . . . to see the emptiness 
 Of dead youth wooing to a dead flute's tune. 
 
 Lady. 
 Let us go back ! 
 
 Marquis. 
 It might be well to go. 
 
 To Fat Pierrot. 
 My man, who lives here ? I should like to know. 
 
 Fat Pierrot. 
 I'll tell you ... if you haste and leave. 
 
 Poet. 
 Tell me ! The place intrigues me so ! 
 
 Fat Pierrot. 
 Looking about fearfully. 
 A strange, strange master! I believe 
 He's called the Melancholy Pierrot, 
 [18] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 With strange deep eyes and lips all worn and thin. 
 
 He dwells alone. Here no one enters in, 
 
 Save whom he bids . . . and he bids no one. 
 
 Lady. 
 It was a foolish thing to venture through 
 That rusting gateway . . . even for a lark. 
 
 Marquis. 
 We are two men, Madame, to guard you. 
 
 Poet. 
 Suddenly. 
 
 Hark! 
 
 Did I hear music . . . like a lover's lute ? 
 
 And are those torches, too? 
 
 Fat Pierrot. 
 Torches ! For God's sake, then, be mute ! 
 
 Lady. 
 Looking out tozvard the right as the others 
 do. 
 I thought it was the orange moon 
 Rising strangely by the pond. 
 Nay, it comes toward us . . . and beyond 
 ['9] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Another . . . and another still . . , 
 Four moons all round and red, 
 Lifting as if they climbed a little hill, 
 And one bobs on ahead. 
 
 Fat Pierrot. 
 
 Too late, too late . . . you cannot flee . . , 
 Hide . . . hide! . . . 
 
 Poet. 
 Why, I cannot see . . . 
 
 Marquis. 
 
 Haughtily. 
 Gentlemen do not hide. 
 
 Fat Pierrot. 
 
 For her sake . . . for the Lady's sake ! 
 Behind here, quick, crouch side by side. 
 Speak not at what you see . . . 
 You do not know what strangeness you may wake. 
 
 Poet. 
 
 The orange moons float by the silver pool . . . 
 [20] 
 
Left to right: Edwin Strawbridge, Harold Meltzer, Margaret 
 
 Fareleigh and Everett Glass of the Greenwich 
 
 Village Theatre Company. 
 
 Fania Marinoff. as Columbine, and Sidney Carlisle, as 
 Melancholy Pierrot, in the final tableau at the 
 (ireenwich Village Theatre. 
 
 The 
 
BEHIND AWATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Marquis. 
 I have my sword. 
 
 Fat Pierrot. 
 O, fool, fool, fool ! 
 
 For your own sake, Lady, bid them run, 
 Or we are all undone ! 
 
 The Lady, really badly frightened, 
 tries to pass it off and at the same 
 time to get the men moving, with a 
 pretense of sport. 
 Lady. 
 I know ... I know! 
 'Tis like a children's game. 
 Here I go 
 
 Hidden behind the roses high . • » 
 You do the same . . . 
 Bend down low, 
 Waiting until they call " I spy." 
 
 They imitate her, laughing, and crouch 
 behind the bushes, singing in an ex- 
 aggeration of caution. 
 Poet. 
 Under the roses' shadow then, 
 One fair lady, two brave men, 
 ^Waiting what danger comes anigh . * „ 
 [21] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Marquis. 
 
 Silent keep, 
 
 Do not peep, 
 
 Waiting until they call " I spy ! " 
 
 The Fat Pierrot runs hastily to the 
 gate, closes it, picks up basket and 
 umbrella and stands visibly shak- 
 ing. From the right, down the 
 steps, comes iJie spangled, black- 
 visor ed Harlequin, follozved by four 
 Chinese In startling robes, each 
 hearing on a tall bamboo stick a 
 large round paper lantern of a deep 
 blood-orange color. The Fat Pier- 
 rot tries to creep past. 
 
 Harlequin. 
 
 His voice is deep and harsh. 
 Halt ! 
 
 You're late, my fat friend, very late. 
 We waited till the hour was past, 
 Yet no sign at the gate. 
 Have you the shroud? 
 
 The Fat Pierrot takes cover off the basket, 
 
 mutely. 
 
 [22] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 At last ! 
 
 Go, bid the diggers come . . . and tell 
 
 Dear little Columbine to prepare, 
 
 To dress her for . . . what she knows well. 
 
 And say that moonrise must behold her . . . here. 
 The Fat Pierrot hurries out, right, like 
 a scared jelly. In a moment, down 
 the steps, come marching four 
 tremendous Negroes, naked to the 
 waist and swathed below in some 
 gaudy cloth, a curved scimeter 
 hanging from each one's broad sash, 
 turbans on their heads, gold hoops 
 in their ears, barefooted. They 
 carry spades and mattocks. 
 
 Harlequin. 
 
 Dig . . . but not too deep. 
 
 She who will sleep 
 
 Is very little, very frail and slim. 
 
 To dig so deep were grim 
 
 Sardonic jest. 
 
 Dig . . . while I summon him. 
 
 Dig . . . without rest. 
 
 [23] 
 
BEHIND AWATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 He goes out with his lithe, stealthy 
 and altogether sinister gait. The 
 Negroes fall to digging, the Chinese 
 standing about them, lighting their 
 work. The four peep from behind 
 the roses, full of disquiet. 
 
 Lady. 
 Softly. 
 What dreadful thing is this? . . . 
 These black and Oriental men . . . 
 That spangled thing whose speech was like a hiss 
 Of some gay, deadly snake ? 
 
 Marquis. 
 Bend close and wait . . . and then 
 Watch well what grave they make, 
 What vengeance they will take. 
 
 They watch in silence. The Negroes 
 dig. Presently the Chinese, zvatch- 
 ing their swaying lanterns, begin to 
 sing in strange, quavering. Oriental 
 intervals. 
 
 Chinese. 
 We are the Bearers of the Lantern, 
 We are the Bearers of the Moon, 
 On our slender willow wands 
 [24] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Poised aloft 
 
 Float the moons . . . 
 
 Orange, tawny, golden moons . . „ 
 
 Like an apple stolen from Eden, 
 
 Like a bubble . . . 
 
 Like a bubble blown of sunset. 
 
 Floating, floating . . . 
 
 Like a tarnished Roman coin 
 
 That bore once the head of Csesar , « . 
 
 Like the children's Toy Balloon , . , 
 
 We are the Bearers of the Moon. 
 
 Lady. 
 I am afraid! 
 
 Marquis. 
 
 Be silent. . . . Wait. 
 
 And now the Negroes, swaying slowly 
 at their digging, give labored and 
 guttural answer. 
 
 Negroes. 
 Dig ... dig ... dig .. . 
 This is not our moon that rises. 
 Our moon pours through the trees of Congo, 
 Black and gold . . . black and gold 
 For the Voodoo sacrifice. 
 Dig . . . dig. . . . 
 [25] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Chinese. 
 When there is no moon in heaven 
 We are the Makers of Moons. 
 
 First Chinese. 
 This is the moon of the East 
 Flat and carven and white. 
 
 Second Chinese. 
 This is the moon of the North 
 Cold with the Northern night. 
 
 Third Chinese. 
 This is the moon of the golden South 
 Rich and swollen with delight. 
 
 Fourth Chinese. 
 This is the moon of the West 
 Where the wheat ripes under its ruddy light. 
 
 All four Chinese. 
 When there is no moon in heaven, 
 These we fashion in her image. 
 We are the Makers of Moons. 
 
 Lady. 
 I am afraid . . . afraid! 
 
 [26] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Negroes, 
 Ours is a moon of wailing, 
 Wailing and blood . . . 
 Ours is the moon of Voodoo, 
 The red moon . . . 
 The red moon of the black folk . . . 
 Wailing and blood. 
 
 Chinese. 
 We are the Bearers of the Lantern, 
 We are the Bearers of the Moon, 
 Till she rise lotus-like and mellow. 
 Till she rise . . . soon. 
 These be the four moons of the garden, 
 Moons that our own hands have made, 
 Ours is a fairer moon than God's moon. 
 Ours will not fade. 
 
 Behind the roses the Poet replies in a hushed 
 voice. 
 
 Poet. 
 These are the Bearers of the Lantern, 
 These are the Bearers of the Moon, 
 Hasten the true moon upon us. 
 Hasten her . . . soon. 
 
 [27] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Lady. 
 
 These are the dead moons of the garden. 
 Moons their unclean hands have made. 
 Their moons are evil beside God's moon, 
 I am afraid . . . afraid! 
 
 The Chinese turn to the Negroes. 
 
 Chinese. 
 Is the grave made? 
 
 Negroes. 
 Not yet is the grave made. 
 
 Chinese. 
 Dig, then . . . v^e watch. 
 
 A moment's pause. Then, from the 
 right, down the steps, comes Colum- 
 bine, running, — her pretty ballet 
 dress rumpled, her hair once hound 
 up with rosebuds falling on her 
 shoidders. She nms to the locked 
 gate and shakes the bars, showing 
 despair. All her movements sug- 
 gest the art of the ballerina. 
 
 [28] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Coluiitbine. 
 Sobbing. 
 Open . . . open! 
 
 Gates, iron gates, that will not ope * . * 
 Moon, cruel moon, that soon must rise. 
 Have you no pity for me here, who grope 
 Against your bars ? And must your saffron eyes 
 Behold me slain ? . . . 
 
 The Fat Pierrot, greatly perturbed, 
 runs on after her, and in panto- 
 mime, always in pantomime here- 
 after, tries to get her away from the 
 gate and out. His gestures are ab- 
 jectly comic and she pays no atten- 
 tion to him. She turns from the 
 gate and stands with her back 
 against it, with outflung arms. 
 Because my laughter in the sunny hours 
 Awoke sweet echoes in this dying place . . . 
 Because I strove with love against the powers 
 Who fill this garden-close with death . . . 
 Because my very face 
 Was beautiful and young, 
 So will they try to stop my singing breath 
 And kill the songs I have not sung. 
 [29] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 The Fat Pierrot makes another at- 
 tempt, in vain. Seeing the Lady's 
 head peeping around the rose-hedge, 
 he waggles his hand despairingly at 
 her, as if begging her to do some- 
 thing. She calls to the girl, who 
 has hidden her face on her arm. 
 
 Lady. 
 Columbine ! 
 
 The Men. 
 Softly. 
 
 Columbine . . . Columbine! 
 
 She turns in astonishment. The Lady's voice 
 
 goes on. 
 
 Lady. 
 Here where the roses lift and twine, 
 Here in shadowy rose-flowers hidden . , » 
 Here we will hide you ... 
 
 Columbine. 
 Astonished. 
 
 'Tis forbidden . . . 
 
 Marquis. 
 Here are swords to guard you well. 
 
 Poet. 
 Here are shadows that never tell. 
 [30] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Lady. 
 Columbine, Columbine, hide with us here. 
 Waiting means danger. . . . Columbine, dear ! 
 She is on the point of running behind 
 the rose-hedge when the lutes sound 
 loudly and very near, and Harlequin 
 appears on the steps. Columbine 
 throws out her hands despairingly, 
 and falls with a moan on the bench 
 in front of the roses — on her back — 
 long slim legs lax, one hand flung 
 over her face, as if she had fainted. 
 Behind Harlequin as he descends the 
 steps are four boys who might have 
 stepped out of some early Italian 
 painting — slender, blonde-curled, in 
 sheath-tight hose and doublet of 
 flame color, with impertinent little 
 caps on the back of the head. They 
 carry round-bellied lutes which they 
 pluck zvithout ceasing, but with re- 
 gard to what happens. Sometimes 
 a faint accompaniment to speech 
 and action, sometimes suddenly loud 
 and arresting in a dead pause. 
 [31] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Behind them comes slowly the Melan- 
 choly Pierrot, a tall, thin, white- 
 faced thing in the usual loose 
 clothes of a Pierrot, hut fashioned 
 of a deep purple crepe with blood- 
 red rosettes on coat and shoes. 
 His wide ruff is black; so is his 
 skidl cap. His white-washed face 
 is very drawn and lean, — with hol- 
 low dark eyes and a sardonic slash 
 of scarlet for a mouth. A tiny 
 guitar is slung round his neck by a 
 broad ribbon, — usually he carries it 
 at his back so as not to be in the 
 way. He is very absent and moody 
 and languid. 
 
 Harlequin. 
 Master, behold, the grave is made. 
 The lanterns wait, the lutanists are set, 
 The girl is shrouded . . . 
 All is ready here. 
 
 Pierrot. 
 Not hearing. 
 
 The mist lies over pool and glade 
 
 [32] 
 
BEHIND AWATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Like some veiled face I knew once . ,. . and 
 
 forget . . . 
 The sky should not be clouded . . s 
 
 Suddenly. 
 What do we here ? 
 
 Harlequin. 
 Master, you know. 
 
 Pierrot. 
 
 The sky is very clear. 
 There is no moon. 
 
 Harlequin. 
 The moon is very late. 
 
 Pierrot. 
 
 Angrily. 
 
 I bade you have a moon ! 
 
 Harlequin. 
 Soothingly. 
 Soon . . . soon . . . but wait. 
 Or . . . here are little moonlets at your hand. 
 
 Pierrot. 
 The stars are ready and the trees stand fast, 
 The water in the fountain springs aghast, 
 [33] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 The rose blooms will be faithful to the last. . . . 
 Shall the moon make me wait . . . when / 
 
 command ? 
 
 Harlequin. 
 Master, the inoon is slow to-night. 
 He makes a sign to the Chinese to show their 
 moons. 
 
 Chinese. 
 We are the Bearers of the Lantern, 
 We are the Bearers of the Moon, 
 Can one moon pour a larger light 
 Than our red bubbles in the dark ? 
 
 Pierrot. 
 I bade the moon ! The moon is late . . . 
 then hark ! 
 In a rage he scatters the Chinese, faces the wall 
 and sky and stands with arms outstretched. 
 Lady of dark thought and of darker deed. 
 Mistress of shadows and of cruel seas, 
 Huntress among the timid Pleiades, 
 Come ... in our need. 
 
 Chijtese. 
 White moon, golden moon, moon red as fire, 
 Race across the seas to us. 
 Give us our desire. 
 
 [34] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Pierrot 
 Mistress of this garden-close. 
 To whose light the fountains leap, 
 In the dark the roses sleep, 
 Come . . . and wake the rose. 
 
 Negroes. 
 
 Red moon, golden moon, moon white as flame, 
 Moon of Congo forests . , . come 
 By thy dreadful name ! 
 
 Pierrot. 
 
 Pilgrim of a lonely way. 
 
 To our garden swinging low, 
 
 For a while delay the dreadful day, 
 
 Come ... to Pierrot! 
 
 At the words the moon appears over 
 the garden wall, a deep ruddy gold 
 in color, a man's height in diameter. 
 It rises till it seems to poise on the 
 top of the wall like a bubble, then 
 stops and remains fixed till the end. 
 Its left quarter shines through the 
 delicate lace-work of the peach 
 foliage. As it rises slowly the 
 [35] 
 
BEHIND AWATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Chinese prostrate themselves and 
 their little moons. 
 
 Chinese. 
 
 We are the Bearers of the Lantern, 
 She is the true, the veiy moon. 
 Like a golden bubble floating . . . float- 
 ing .. . 
 Go not too soon! 
 Pause while Pierrot looks pensively at the moon, 
 
 Pierrot. 
 
 The moon is young and sweet to-night, 
 
 Hung on the night's blue vine 
 
 Like some great fruit of rose and gold, 
 
 Young and sweet . . . rose and gold . . . 
 
 Passionate . . . like Columbine. 
 
 With a sudden start of remembrance. 
 Columbine . . . where is Columbine? 
 Bring her to me ! 
 
 Ah, if the moon were gray and cold, 
 Like a woman veiled and old, 
 Ah, if the moon were wan and white . , . 
 So might I spare her . . . for to-night. 
 Bring her to me ! 
 
 [36] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Harlequin. 
 There she Hes. Let her come forth. 
 She knows the way that she must go, 
 Since she mocked at Pierrot, 
 Fragile . . . Httle worth! 
 
 Pierrot crosses to where Columbine 
 lies lax on the bench, her face 
 hidden, and bends aver her with 
 yearning hands. 
 
 Pierrot. 
 Fragile . . . but oh, so sweet I 
 How can I kill? . . . 
 Columbine dear, 
 
 See, it is moon rise . . . see, at your feet. 
 Once more kneeling . . . Pierrot's licre ! 
 
 Wildly. 
 Strangle that white, young throat . . . and 
 
 still 
 Her song like a bird's at daybreak? 
 Columbine, loveliest . . . wake! 
 
 Harlequin, zvho has been watching 
 angrily, crosses and lays his hand 
 heavily on his master's shoulder. 
 [37] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Harlequin. 
 
 No, Pierrot. 
 
 Have you forgotten? 
 
 Rose and gold, sweet to the taste. 
 
 Like a sweet apple, mellow . . . and rotten. 
 
 Worms at the heart, decaying within, 
 
 Sweet, . . . yes, sweet . . . sweet, as 
 
 sin! 
 Lovely to pluck . . . bitter to taste. 
 
 Pierrot 
 
 Sadly. 
 Lovely to pluck . . . bitter to taste. 
 
 Harlequin. 
 
 No, Pierrot ! 
 
 Have you forgotten? 
 
 False to the heart. 
 
 Wanton and light as a bird 
 
 In its flight. 
 
 Your mistress, my mistress, lover of any 
 
 Lad whom she meets . . . 
 
 Can she be lovely, allowing so many 
 
 To taste of her sweets ? 
 
 [38] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Pierrot. 
 Dully. 
 
 Allowing so many to taste of her sweets. 
 
 But sweet . . . yes, sweet ? 
 
 Harlequin. 
 No, Pierrot ! 
 Can you forget? 
 How she deceives you. 
 Fools you and leaves you 
 Without a regret, 
 
 Slips from your covers to kiss with new lovers, 
 And she believes . . . 
 
 She . . . can . . . fool . . . you yet ! 
 Pierrot flings him off in a hurst of passion. 
 
 Pierrot. 
 Be still . . . you spangled, spying thing! 
 Look, she is suffering. 
 
 He raises her very gently in his arms. 
 Her eyes unclose and search his 
 adoring ones, then she smiles a 
 very satisfied, cat-a-cornered smile. 
 Pierrot kneels by her, as she leans 
 back lazily, fondling her hands. 
 She does not respond at all. 
 [39] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Sweet . . . sweet! 
 
 Lift me from kneeling at your feet, 
 
 Laugh in my eyes . . . give me your mouth 
 
 For my hps are faint with drouth. 
 
 To Harlequin. 
 
 Fill in the grave . . . and softly go from 
 
 sight. 
 She shall not die to-night, 
 But this moonrise 
 
 Shall shine upon a garden of delight. 
 Oh, see how every blossom lies. 
 Open and fragrant for our happiness . . g 
 Dear, dear child. 
 Lay your cool fingers in caress 
 Upon my mouth. Pierrot is reconciled! 
 
 Pause for a moment, zvhile Columbine 
 makes sure of what is in his eyes. 
 Then she laughs, deliberately, un- 
 twines his arms from about her 
 waist, rises, looks down scornfidly 
 at the wonder and adoration in his 
 eyes, then, with utmost care and art 
 begins to dance, with a most in- 
 
 [40] 
 
BEHIND AWATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 solenf step around him, snapping 
 her fingers like castanets^ 
 
 Columbine. 
 Oh . . . oh . . . poor Pierrot, 
 All in black 
 
 Like a melancholy crow. . . . 
 You must dress in rose and gold 
 When you come a- wooing me, 
 Paint your face that grows too old, 
 Or you're not for me . , . la-la ! 
 
 Pierrot. 
 Columbine ! 
 
 Columbine: 
 
 Smiling in his face. 
 Kill me if you can. 
 Am I not too fair? 
 Let your spangled man 
 Kill me if he dare. 
 
 With languor. 
 In the moonlight Pierrot's aflame . . . 
 The moon perchance or I perchance to blame . , ^ 
 
 [41] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Pierrot will die unless I kinder grow. 
 So kiss me . . . Pierrot. 
 
 She stoops her face to his, her arms 
 
 round his neck. He crushes her to 
 
 him with a groan. 
 
 Pierrot. 
 Sweet . . . sweet! 
 
 Columhine. 
 She holds her cheek close to his. 
 You will not kill me now? 
 Kiss me again ... 
 You cannot still me now. 
 Am I safe again ? 
 
 He lets his arms fall loosely from her/- 
 his eyes stare at her dully, as if he 
 did not understand. She rises and 
 stands over him, sparkling, tri- 
 umphant. 
 So, Pierrot, 
 Too beautiful, too beautiful to die? 
 
 Joyously. 
 Love hangs too high for Death to gather in, 
 Love lives eternally, sweeter than sin, 
 
 [42] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Love kisses once and goes laughing on her way, 
 Love leaves the lips she knows for new lips every 
 
 day, 
 Love feeds on fresh desire, ever to warm her, 
 Lovers fade . . . but love can never tire . . . 
 Death cannot harm her. 
 
 And goes off again in her shameless, 
 tiptoe dance round Pierrot, who 
 stares blindly in front of him. 
 So . . . so . . . Master Pierrot, 
 Kiss me once and , . . let me go. 
 You have given me your pardon. 
 You shall watch me dance o' nights. 
 Joyous all across your garden. 
 Seeking new delights. 
 
 You shall see me luring lovers old and lovers new. 
 If your passion is enduring . . . 
 Passion pity you ! 
 
 He rises as if horror-struck to an- 
 szver her as she again sings her 
 song in praise of love. 
 Love hangs too high 
 For Death to gather in, 
 Love lives eternally 
 Sweeter than sin ; 
 
 [43] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Love feeds on fresh desire 
 
 Ever to warm her, 
 
 Lovers fade but Love can never tire, 
 
 Death cannot harm her. 
 
 Pierrot. 
 
 Love is too kind 
 
 Ever to blame me, 
 
 Love has no cruel mind 
 
 Always to shame me ; 
 
 If this be Love in truth . w » 
 
 Not her betrayer ! 
 
 Passion dies, but Love is very youth . . ,; 
 
 Death cannot slay her. 
 
 At the end Columbine laughs and ap- 
 proaches too fondly one of the 
 boyish pages. Pierrot passes his 
 hand across his eyes as if waking 
 from a bad dream, and never taking 
 his eyes off her, motions to Harle- 
 quin. 
 
 Harlequin! . . . 
 
 She is not Love, 
 
 So light Love could not grow 
 
 My heart is dead from her. 
 [44] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Cohtmbine. 
 Oh, poor Pierrot ! 
 
 Pierrot. 
 
 In the same low, die-away voice. 
 The shadows whisper and the moon is still, 
 None lifts a voice for her. . . , 
 
 Loudly. 
 Harlequin ... do your will. 
 
 Harlequin. 
 Bind her. The grave is ready. 
 
 The Negroes move forward. Colum- 
 bine suddenly awakes to her danger, 
 shrieks, tries to hide among the 
 page-boys but they push her away. 
 She turns at last to Pierrot, confi- 
 'dent, but he has wandered over to 
 the steps and stands with an elbow 
 on the balustrade, picking at his 
 little guitar, sunk in apathy. 
 
 Columbine. 
 Pierrot . ■, .. Pierrot! 
 [45] 
 
BEHIND AWATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Harlequin. 
 
 Terribly. 
 
 Bind her. 
 
 And lay her there. 
 
 Just as the Negroes are about to seize 
 her, she shrieks again. From the 
 rose-hedge the Lady runs to her 
 side and enfolds her. Before her 
 appear the two men with drawn 
 swords. 
 
 Lady. 
 Here are swords, Columbine. 
 They will not dare. 
 
 The Negroes recoil, Harlequin throws out his 
 hands fiercely. 
 
 Harlequin. 
 
 Foes in the garden ! . . . 
 
 Slay . . . slay! 
 
 The Negroes advance with drawn 
 scimeters, but suddenly Pierrot 
 strikes a peremptory chord on his 
 guitar and the swords drop. Pier- 
 rot comes down the steps and 
 crosses to the strangers, and looks 
 them over rather wearily, incurious. 
 
 [46] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Pierrot. 
 Why do you come here . . . 
 Is it dull outside? 
 
 This is a dull and weary garden here. 
 From year to silent year 
 None comes inside. 
 
 Who told you stories of the sad Pierrot ? 
 Now you have seen me . . . go. 
 
 Harlequin. 
 
 Open the gate, fat friend, and drive them hence. 
 
 Then you and I, fat friend. 
 
 Shall settle your recompense. 
 
 The Fat Pierrot melts visibly with 
 terror. The Negroes advance again 
 to take Columbine who, safe among 
 the swords, smiles unendurably at 
 Harlequin. The Lady waves the 
 Negroes back. 
 
 Lady. 
 Nay . . . you shall not ! 
 Think you to do your wicked will 
 Here in this deadly spot 
 Where all is chill . . . 
 And humankind forgot ? 
 
 [47] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Columbine goes with us . :, t .we are not 
 
 afraid. 
 You shall not kill the maid. 
 
 Marqtiis.\ 
 Not while a sword is mine 
 To guard Columbine. 
 
 Pierrot looks from Columbine, full of 
 indecent triumph, to the earnest 
 three and smiles, very gently and 
 sadly. But Harlequin does not take 
 it so calmly. 
 
 Harlequin. 
 So soon ? Has she bewitched you too ? 
 She is a cold and heartless thing 
 For all her loveliness, 
 Her pretty wantoning . . . 
 She holds men*s hearts in sick duress, 
 You know not what you do ! 
 
 Poet. 
 She is a lovely thing in evil stead, 
 Too lovely to lie dead 
 Under this strange moonshine. . ? « 
 
 [48] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Nay, she shall lift her sunny head 
 
 Far from these walls . . . and laugh ! 
 
 Harlequin. 
 Grimly. 
 
 Her lips like wine 
 
 Make drunken those who quaff. 
 
 Give her to us to kill. 
 
 Pierrot. 
 Breaking his absent silence at last. 
 The moon is silent ever . . . gives no sign. 
 These men are young and foolish in their youth. 
 Think ye she will have ruth 
 Upon them . . . Columbine? 
 Loose her ... let her have her will. 
 
 Upon his sign the Negroes retire and 
 the Fat Pierrot smiling throws aside 
 the gate. Then Pierrot retires to 
 the steps, right, to watch the sport. 
 Harlequin glowers by the grave. 
 Columbine is most effusive, but 
 makes no move to go, and one can 
 see from her smile and the zvay 
 she eyes the men that she intends 
 to have a good time. The men 
 [49] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 warm rapidly to her. The Lady, 
 at first kind and protecting, as 
 the scene progresses grows doubt- 
 fid, distrustfid, hostile, and finally 
 afraid of Columbine. 
 
 Columbine. 
 O gallant hearts, friends mine. 
 Columbine loves you ! . . . 
 
 Lady. 
 See, the gate is wide ! 
 Let us go quickly. 
 
 Columbine. 
 No, no . . . shall we not bide 
 A little, little while 
 
 And mock this melancholy thing in black, 
 Who wears such sorry smile? 
 Shall we not dance and laugh upon his lack, 
 Dance, dance, . . . and smile? 
 Pierrot. 
 As Columbine coquets outrageously, ballet- 
 fashion. 
 O moon, behold, the play begins apace ! 
 Shine, moon . . . sound lutes. . . . 
 Now that lovely face, 
 
 [50] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 That mouth whose speech is sweet as silver flutes, 
 Shall breathe a madness in this quiet place. . o . 
 Laugh, lutes and viols, 
 Dance, dear sorcery! 
 
 Lady. 
 Uneasily. 
 
 I am afraid. Let's go home . . . soon. 
 
 Marquis. 
 Not till we dance. Mistress, a boon ! 
 Dance first with me. 
 
 Poet. 
 Nay, with me, sweet. 
 
 Marquis. 
 No, 'tis I have the lighter feet ! 
 
 Poet. 
 Dance with me. . . . Dance with me. . . ■, 
 
 Marquis. 
 Choose you the stronger. 
 
 Poet. 
 Pouf ! He will tire ... I can dance longer. 
 
 [51] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Lady. 
 Let us go home. . . . I am afraid. 
 
 Columbine. 
 
 Scornfully. 
 
 Poor, frightened maid ! 
 With a bright idea. 
 Whom shall I dance with? 
 Him I shall kiss. 
 She pirouettes to the Marquis and kisses him 
 lightly. 
 
 Marquis. 
 Madly. 
 
 Kiss me again. 
 
 Leaving, she kisses the Poet twice, watching 
 
 the Marquis over her shoulder. 
 
 Cohimh'me. 
 Like this. . . . Like this? 
 Pity should any one miss ! ... So this ! 
 Whom shall I dance with . . . come, decide ! 
 
 The Men. 
 Me she kissed best. 
 She dances with me . . . with me. . . . 
 
 [52] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Columbine. 
 To both. 
 One only dances with me. 
 Does your pride 
 Suffer this braggart so to brawl? 
 Dance with me quickly ... or not at all. 
 
 Lady. 
 Wildly. 
 
 O evil of the world, 
 
 Passion, whose other name is death ! 
 
 Come away, come away. . . . 
 
 Leave this dancing girl ... I am afraid. 
 
 Poet. 
 My lips are drunken with the kiss of her. 
 My arms are aching for her body sweet. . . . 
 
 Marquis. 
 Yea, though deathwards go our feet. 
 Yet I shall dance with her. 
 
 Columbine. 
 No one . . . save one . . . shall dance 
 
 with me to-night. 
 Choose, choose, my masters ! 
 Suddenly the Marquis draws his sword angrily. 
 [53] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Marquis. 
 Lo, my right 
 
 To choose her s . , flashes in my hand ! 
 The Poet draws also. Pierrot's voice rings 
 from the steps. 
 
 Pierrot. 
 Now, do you understand ? 
 Lady, beware. . . . 
 
 Lady. 
 Flinging herself between the men. 
 No, no. . . . You will not dare 
 To fight, to perish for that painted thing ! 
 Put up your swords. Will you kill me, too ? 
 Have you no pity for my suffering ? . . . A-a-ah ! 
 The Marquis has pushed her so 
 violently to one side that she swoons 
 on the bench, hiding her head. 
 Columbine circles eagerly aroiind 
 the tense men, clapping her hands. 
 
 Columbine. 
 How splendid . . . thus to woo 
 With blades bright in the moon. 
 Fight for me . . . while I dance. 
 You shall have music while your swords glance. 
 [54] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 She kisses each of them passionately. 
 A kiss for you . . . for each of you. 
 Who will live to love me yet 
 After this bloody minuet? 
 
 She springs away, clapping her hands. 
 The lutanists strike up a rather 
 stately minuet, Columbine swaying 
 and gesturing in her place to the 
 music, while the Marquis and the 
 Poet take their stand. From the 
 steps Pierrot sings softly in time to 
 the music. 
 
 Pierrot. 
 'Tis a pretty dance they dance. 
 Columbine ! 
 
 Tis a quaint and pretty measure. 
 See how brightly their blades glance, 
 Columbine ! 
 Dancing for your sorry pleasure. 
 
 The Chinese, Negroes and lutanists take up 
 the strain. 
 See, the moon is glowing red, 
 And the night holds her breath. 
 Soon the earth shall be their bed . . , 
 For these dance with Death ! 
 [55] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 As the men salute. Columbine holds out her 
 hand to Pierrot. 
 
 Columbine. 
 Sad Pierrot, let us dance, too ! 
 
 Pierrot. 
 Descending to her, taking her hand with a 
 cold smile. 
 Fitting that I should dance with you 
 While men are dying ! . . . Sirs, engage. 
 
 The lutes strike; the men cross swords 
 and fight, while Columbine and 
 Pierrot move through the minuet, — 
 the attendants singing as before. 
 This time it breaks off toward the 
 end with a jangling chord as the 
 Poet drives the Marquis through 
 the heart and receives the other's 
 blade near the same place. 
 
 Marquis. 
 Antoinette ! 
 He dies. 
 
 Lady. 
 Love! 
 
 She staggers to the body and falls. 
 [56] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Columbine. 
 Bends over Poet writhing on the grass, 
 pointing to the other two carelessly. 
 Dead! 
 Now ... we can dance, I and you. 
 
 Poet. 
 
 Nay ... I shall dance no more. 
 
 I, too, shall die. 
 
 Yet fortunate, if you . . . sweetheart . , g 
 
 are by. 
 Pillow my fallen head upon your breast. . . 
 Kiss me again . . . till I forget the rest. 
 Remembering the best . . . 
 That for sweet Love I die. 
 
 But Pierrot, standing over him sorrowfully, 
 
 shakes his head. 
 
 Pierrot. 
 
 Fair sir, lift up your eyes and see 
 This is not Love. 
 
 Love is a kind thing. Love is true . . . 
 Love was not meant for you. 
 But this false fair . . . this painted, rosy 
 thing . . . 
 
 tS7] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 This golden sham who . . , to your sorrow- 
 ing .. . 
 Kissed you with lips of dust, 
 Quickened your blood to lust . . . 
 So die you now ... as die you must . . . 
 For Passion's cruelty. 
 
 Poet. 
 Feebly. 
 
 Nay, it is Love . . . her face is close and 
 
 dear. 
 
 Love, are you here . . . are you here ? 
 
 Your arms are warm, your breast 
 
 Like a soft, sleepy nest. . . . 
 
 Suddenly. 
 
 I cannot see the moon now for the dark. 
 
 Bend your dear face close and closer. Love, 
 
 Kiss me again . . . 
 
 Columbine . . . Columbine . . . Love? 
 He dies. The lutes jangle into dis- 
 cord again. Pierrot looks down for 
 a time at the body. But Columbine 
 disengages herself with a gesture of 
 distaste; touches the body lightly 
 
 [58] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 with her slipper, and walks away, 
 swinging her hips, humming her 
 earlier melody. 
 Columbine. 
 Oh ! Oh ! . . c See, Pierrot, 
 Two pretty gentlemen 
 Lying in a row, 
 Each crying for the moon, 
 Each wanting . . » mine. 
 Oh, happy gentlemen. 
 Poor Columbine ! 
 
 Pierrot, 
 With a terrible gesture. 
 Be silent ! 
 
 Columbine wanders right, and poses 
 in an attitude of graceful dejection 
 against the base of a marble. Pier- 
 rot goes to the Lady and lifts her 
 gently from her husband's body and 
 supports her. 
 Dear Lady, rise 
 And do not sorrow so. . . . 
 Look not upon me with such staring eyes. 
 Once ... a long time past . . « I bade 
 you go. 
 
 [59] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Lady^ 
 Where may I go 
 Now that I am . . . alone? 
 
 Pierrot. 
 Harlequin here shall lead you back to life, 
 Safe . . . safe home. 
 Harlequin ! lead her tenderly 
 Home through the empty streets and still, 
 Sing to her, magic her with song until 
 She can forget all this fantastic past 
 And sleep ... at last. 
 
 Lady. 
 Pointing, as her eyes jail on Columbine, 
 bitterly. 
 She lives . . . and so I shall not lay my curse 
 On you and on this garden. 
 
 Pierrot. 
 Understanding, with a hopeless shrug of the 
 shoulders. 
 Nay, 'twere worse 
 
 To leave her here with me than bury me 
 Under the wall. . . . 
 
 [6o] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 We two in this garden 
 
 All the deadly years 
 
 Must love and hate, with laughter and with tears, 
 
 Dying, yet never free of life, but she 
 
 Forever mine and ever . . . Columbine ! 
 
 Lady. 
 And you? It is my right to know. 
 
 Pierrot. 
 I ... am the Melancholy Pierrot 
 Some call her Light-o-Love, false as breatK^j 
 Some call me . . . Death. 
 
 Lady. 
 Shivering. 
 
 Farewell ! Your smile is cold upon my heart. 
 
 Pierrot. 
 Harlequin ! 
 
 Harlequin puts his arm around the 
 drooping Lady and leads her slowly 
 out of the gate. The lutes are 
 sorrowfid. Pierrot looks about, 
 stretching forth anguished hands. 
 So depart 
 
 All true and lovely life from this retreat ! 
 [6i] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 In a monotone. 
 How ugly those are . . . dead. Take up 
 
 their feet 
 And bury them ! 
 
 The Negroes drag the bodies roughly across the 
 grass and dump them into the open grave. 
 Lock the gate, fat friend. ... No, you need 
 
 not wait. 
 Go ! . . . all of you. 
 
 He flings his hands out in dismissal. 
 The Fat Pierrot, who has been hid- 
 ing behind the bushes, creeps out, 
 locks the gate and scurries away, 
 his legs bending under him. The 
 Negroes shoidder their spades and 
 mattocks and shuffle out. But the 
 Chinese go as they came, singing 
 slowly under their lanterns, the 
 lutanists following, accompanying 
 them, till both strumming and 
 chanting die away, beyond on the 
 right. 
 
 Chinese. 
 We are the Makers of Madness, 
 We are the Makers of Moons, 
 [62] 
 
BEHIND AWATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 Like a rosy bubble floating, 
 
 Like a poison, magic bubble, 
 
 That men grow mad to look on . • ^ 
 
 We are the Makers of Madness . . « 
 
 Makers of Moons. 
 
 Columbine turns away from the 
 marble, looks keenly at Pierrot, but 
 he meets her gaze with folded arms 
 and wry smile; so she goes with 
 dragging feet toward the gate. 
 
 Columbine. 
 Shaking the gate wildly. 
 The gate is locked ! 
 Let me out . . . out . a , out I 
 
 Pierrot, 
 
 Smiling coldly. 
 To kill more men, no doubt. 
 No, you bide here 
 
 To comfort me with your red smiles, my dear. 
 And when you long for amorous company, 
 You may kiss . . . me. 
 
 He turns his back on her and climbs 
 up the steps along the wall, right 
 
 [63] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 back. Presently he appears, sitting 
 on the top of the wall, a thin black 
 figure, with chin bent down on his 
 knees, brooding. He is silhouetted 
 sharply against the perfect golden 
 disk of the moon. 
 Below Columbine peers through the 
 grille in the gate, calling to any 
 chance passer-by. 
 
 Columbine. 
 Will no one hear me, 
 Columbine singing, 
 Poor, sweet Columbine? . », , 
 I have love to give, 
 Kisses and delight . . . 
 Open, lads ... and let me live 
 Free among you in the streets at night. 
 Can you not hear me call 
 Behind the wall ? 
 
 Trying for her old careless, insolent manner. 
 Love feeds on fresh desire 
 Ever to warm her, 
 Lovers fail but Love can never tire. 
 
 She breaks down, sobbing, her body 
 [64] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 writhing against the grille. On the 
 top of the wall, Pierrot strikes a 
 few mournful chords on his little 
 guitar, and with face raised to the 
 moon, sings the melody the Poet 
 sang outside the wall. 
 
 Pierrot. 
 There is a garden where 
 Love lies beneath the moon. 
 Golden and rose and fair, 
 Love ... in a swoon. 
 Lads full of hardihood, 
 Flee when you hear her call. 
 Love bringeth nought of good 
 Over Death's wall. 
 
 In another, a minor key. 
 O sorry hearts of dust ! 
 Love sings a tawdry lie, 
 Passion, her name, and Lust 
 When you come nigh. . . . 
 You whom she slayeth soon 
 Love will not pardon, 
 Love dwells beyond the moon . .: g 
 Not in Death's garden. 
 
 [65] 
 
BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE 
 
 During the last lines the moon and 
 other lights die out. When they leap 
 up again, we see the Watteau group 
 posed motionless as at the opening, 
 outside the wall. But . . . from 
 over the wall, behind the picture, 
 we hear the last bars of Pierrot's 
 bitter little song. 
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS 
 
 [66]