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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSHi 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
BY GRANVILLE BARKER 
 
 THE MADRAS HOUSE 
 
 ANATOL 
 
 THE MARRYING OF ANN LEETE 
 
 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 
 
 WASTE 
 
 SOULS ON FIFTH 
 
 THREE SHORT PLAYS : rococo : vote 
 
 BY BALLOT : FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE 
 In Collaboration ivith Laurence Housman 
 
 PRUNELLA 
 
"And what should Columbine be like? Well, she is just like what 
 
 you'd most like her to be. She has a rose in her hand." 
 Frontispiece. See pay e 26. 
 
n^HE HARLEQUINADE 
 * AN EXCURSION BY 
 
 DION CLAYTON CALTHROP 
 AND GRANVILLE BARKER 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
 
 1918 
 
<A^ 
 
 wvos 
 
 *™w? 
 
 Copyright, iqi8, 
 By Harley Granville Barker 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 "The Harlequinade" is fully protected and must 
 not be performed (neither the whole nor any parts 
 of it) without written permission. Professionals 
 should apply for this to the authors in the care of 
 the Publishers; amateurs, to The Paget Dramatic 
 Agency, 25 West 45th Street, New York City. 
 
 Published, March, 19 18 
 
 MAR -8 lata 
 
 ©CU481908 
 
 
JUST A WORD IN YOUR EAR 
 
 JOT to put too fine a point to it, this 
 isn't a play at all and it isn't a novel, 
 or a treatise, or an essay, or any- 
 thing like that; it is an excursion, 
 and you who trouble to read it are the trippers. 
 Now in any excursion you get into all sorts 
 of odd company, and fall into talk with persons 
 out of your ordinary rule, and you borrow a 
 match and get lent a magazine, and, as likely as 
 not, you may hear the whole tragedy and 
 comedy of a ham and beef carver's life. So 
 you will get a view of the world as oddly col- 
 oured as Harlequin's clothes, with puffs of 
 sentiment dear to the soul of Columbine, and 
 Clownish fun with Pantaloonish wisdom and 
 chuckles. When you were young, you used, 
 I think, to enjoy a butterfly's kiss ; and that, 
 you remember, was when your mother brushed 
 your cheek with her eye-lashes. And also 
 when you were young you held a buttercup 
 
vi JUST A WORD IN YOUR EAR 
 
 under other children's chins to see if they liked 
 butter, and they always did, and the golden 
 glow showed and the world was glad. And 
 you held a shell to your ear to hear the sound 
 of the sea, and when it rained, you pressed 
 your nose against the window-pane until it 
 looked flat and white to passers-by. It is 
 rather in that spirit that Alice and her Uncle 
 present this excursion to you. 
 
 I suppose it has taken over a thousand people 
 to write this excursion, and we are, so far, the 
 last. And not by any means do we pretend 
 because of that to be the best of them ; rather, 
 because of that, perhaps, we cannot be the 
 best. We should have done much better — 
 if we could. Oh, this has been written by 
 Greeks and Romans and Mediaeval Italians 
 and Frenchmen and Englishmen, and it has 
 been played thousands and thousands of times 
 under every sort of weather and conditions. 
 Think of it: when the gardeners of Egypt 
 sent their boxes of roses to Italy to make chap- 
 lets for the Romans to wear at feasts this play 
 was being performed ; when the solemn Doges 
 (which Alice once would call "Dogs") of Venice 
 held festa days, this play was shown to the 
 people. 
 
JUST A WORD IN YOUR EAR vii 
 
 And here Alice interrupts and says: "Do 
 you think people really like to read all that 
 sort of thing? Why don't you let me tell the 
 story, please? I'm sitting here waiting to." 
 Well, so she shall. 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 For some time now she has been sitting there. 
 Miss Alice Whistler is an attractive young 
 person of about fifteen (very readily still 
 she tells her age), dressed in a silver grey 
 frock which she wishes were longer. The 
 frock has a white collar; she wears grey 
 silk stockings and black shoes; and, finally, 
 a little black silk apron, one of those French 
 aprons. If you must know still more exactly 
 how she is dressed, look at Whistler's por- 
 trait of Miss Alexander. 
 
 What happened was this. A pleasant old Vic- 
 torian art fancier (sort of) saw the child 
 one day, and noted that her name was Whistler 
 ("No relation, 1 ' said her Uncle Edward, 
 il so far as we know"), and "That's how to 
 dress her," said he. And thereupon he 
 forked out what he delicately called "The 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 Wherewithal" ("Which sounded like a sort 
 of mackintosh" said Alice afterwards), 
 for they couldn't have afforded it themselves. 
 " You're still young enough to take presents" 
 said Uncle Edward. And indeed Alice 
 was very pleased, and saw that the hem was 
 left wide enough to let down several times. 
 And here she is; the dress is kept for these 
 occasions. 
 
 Here she is in a low little chair, sitting with her 
 basket of knitting beside her on one side of 
 a simply painted grey and black proscenium, 
 across which, masking the little stage, blue 
 curtains hang in folds. "The blue," said 
 Miss Alice when she ordered them, " must 
 be the colour of Blue-eyed Mary." The 
 silly shopman did not know the flower. 
 "Blue sky then," said Alice, "it's the blue 
 that all skies seem to be when you're really 
 happy under them." "Reckitt's blue is 
 what you want," the shopman said, when 
 nothing seemed to do. Yes; and a very 
 good blue that is — by lamplight. 
 
 On the other side of the proscenium, ensconced 
 (and the word was made to express just this) 
 — ensconced in a porter's chair is Uncle 
 Edward. It is an old porter's chair, for 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 they seem not to make them nowadays. 
 This one indeed was given to Uncle Edward 
 by a club that had no further use for it, 
 having cured the draughts in its front hall 
 by putting up a patent door that the fat mem- 
 bers stuck in and that tried to cut the thin 
 members in half. A cross between a sentry- 
 box and a cradle stuck on end it is, and very, 
 very suitable to sit upright in and pretend 
 you're not asleep. Years of that sitting in 
 by porters, and of leaning against by under - 
 porters and messengers who keep you awake 
 with their chatter, and of daily dusting and 
 rubbing, have made its leather uniform 
 softly glow and its brass buttons shine till 
 it looks a comfortable piece of furniture 
 indeed. Now the side of a stage is draughty 
 at the best of times, and Uncle Edward, 
 says he, is by no means so young as he was 
 {a real live joke to him that outworn phrase 
 is), and how he managed before he had it he 
 really cannot think ! 
 However early you come to the performance you 
 always find him there. For minutes and 
 minutes you may only be aware of very shiny 
 square-toed boots and black-trousered legs 
 and a newspaper that hides the rest of him. 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 On most days it will be "The Times 11 , on 
 Wednesday it may be "Punch 11 , and on 
 Saturdays "The Spectator. 11 "That is a 
 gentleman's reading, 11 he says. When the 
 paper is lowered, as he turns a page, you 
 behold one of those oldish gentlemen with a 
 rather pleasant bad temper who really only 
 mean to demand by it that young people 
 shall pay them the compliment of "getting 
 round 11 them. As the time of the perform- 
 ance draws near he is apt, at each lowering 
 of the paper, to count you up as you sit 
 there waiting, and if there are not enough 
 of you he looks very disapproving indeed. 
 
 Alice watches you furtively almost all the time 
 as she knits or crochets. For audiences 
 make such a difference to her, and she is 
 always hoping for a good one. It need not 
 be a big one to be good {Uncle Edward likes 
 them big). To be a good audience is to 
 take your share of the performance by enjoy- 
 ing it in a simple jolly way — if you can. 
 That eases the actors of half the strain, and 
 then they can enjoy it, too. And if you can't 
 do this, you'd much better go home. 
 
 When it is quite near the time to begin, you hear 
 the orchestra tuning up. This you should 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 a 
 
 never miss. There is nothing like it as a 
 tonic to rouse the theatre appetite. At 
 the sound of it Alice puts away her knitting, 
 and hopes her hair is tidy. 
 
 Then on a single flute a little tune is played, 
 and the child's eyes light up. Music excites 
 her, sets all the gaiety in her free. If it 
 wasn't for the help that music is she'd quite 
 despair sometimes of getting through the play. 
 That's mine. That's my theme," she says. 
 "I've had a piece of music to myself because 
 every one in this has a piece of music. But 
 mine is — " 
 
 But Uncle Edward has finally put his paper 
 down. And now — by means of a violent 
 operation on his waistcoat — he produces 
 an enormous silver watch, like those that 
 railway guards have. And he turns to 
 Alice. 
 
 "Time," he says magnificently. 
 
 Alice looks doubtfully at the laggards trailing to 
 their places and snapping down the stalls. 
 But Uncle Edward is adamant to her if 
 tolerant to them. 
 
 "Some of 'em always late," and his blue eye 
 roves round. "It's their dinner. But go 
 and begin your bit like a good girl." 
 
6 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 So then Alice comes to the middle of the stage; 
 swallows a little from nervousness, and 
 begins . . . 
 
 alice. If you please, this is going to be a 
 Harlequinade ... a real one. And we begin 
 it at the beginning, which is as many thousand 
 years ago as you like to believe. It's about 
 how . . . how . . . 
 
 uncle edward. Psyche. 
 
 alice. When I was young I would call her 
 Fishy. It is all about how Psyche, who is a 
 perfect darling . . . 
 
 uncle edward. You are not to put bits in. 
 
 alice. Well, she is a perfect darling. But 
 you don't see her in the first scene. Now 
 Psyche, who is the Soul, comes down . . . when- 
 ever a baby's born, of course, a little scrap of 
 Psyche is sent down ! . . . But this is how 
 the story goes . . . That she comes down 
 from Mount Olympus where the gods live to 
 adventure on the earth. And in the Harle- 
 quinade she's Columbine, but that only means 
 a dove, and a dove is the symbol of the soul. 
 And anybody who is fond of flowers knows 
 that, because if you look at Columbine flowers 
 you can see that they are made of doves with 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 their wings out. And so she ought always to 
 be dressed in blue. 
 
 uncle edward. What's that ? 
 
 Alice. Well, I like blue. She's a restless 
 adventurous person, and she's always running 
 away from the other gods. For you see the 
 Soul has need of human love, and, of course, 
 gods that are nothing but gods can't appreciate 
 that. Now when she gets to earth her wings 
 drop off. And when she tries to get back to 
 the gods, she can't until she finds another love 
 as great as hers. For two souls that love 
 become more than human ; and when their 
 earthly course is run (as Doctor Watts says), 
 it gives them wings again, and back they can 
 
 fly- 
 
 uncle edward. Pretty. 
 
 Alice. But ... to resume. Mercury, who 
 used to spend week-ends in Athens and Corinth 
 and those places, was sent to try and find her. 
 Mercury has to get old Charon, who is the 
 ferryman for rowing souls over the Styx . . . 
 which is a river all the dead have to cross . . . 
 and my aunt, who's dead and full of fun . . . 
 oh, I'm sure she still is full of fun . . . always 
 said it was the most interesting place in spirit- 
 ual geography. 
 
8 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 UNCLE edward. Steady ! Steady ! 
 
 Alice. You told me she said so. 
 
 uncle edward. In private. Mercury gets 
 Charon . . .? 
 
 alice. To ferry him across. And on the 
 earth side they meet . . . 
 
 UNCLE EDWARD. Not SO fast. 
 
 alice. They meet a Greek philosopher 
 whose name is . . . 
 
 uncle edward. Hipponax. 
 
 alice. Aren't some of these names dread- 
 fully difficult to remember. Hipponax has 
 just died, and he is waiting to be ferried 
 over. And it's rather awkward for him, as, 
 when he was alive, he wrote a book to prove 
 there weren't any gods and there wasn't any 
 after life. And then comes Momus, who's a 
 sort of half-god, not important enough to be 
 rowed over, but he has swum the river as he 
 wants to join the party. Hipponax stays to 
 look after Charon's boat. And that's how it 
 all begins. When the three of them get to 
 earth Mercury's called Harlequin, and Momus, 
 Clown; and . . . But I tell you all that 
 later. 
 
 uncle edward. You missed out again about 
 how Harlequin got his mask. 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 9 
 
 alice. Sorry! So I did. The Greek philos- 
 opher always wore a mask, so that people 
 shouldn't see whether he was talking sense 
 or not. For you can tell that by looking at 
 people. And he wore a cloak all patches to 
 pretend he was poor, because you aren't a 
 philosopher at all unless you're poor . . . 
 there's no need. But Columbine's the nicest. 
 You'll see. 
 
 uncle edward. You're not to take sides. 
 
 alice. I wasn't. They will see. 
 
 uncle edward. Ask George if they are 
 ready. 
 
 alice. They are always quite ready when I 
 begin. 
 
 UNCLE EDWARD. All right. 
 
 [So he takes up the large wooden mallet that 
 lies beside his chair and says solemnly to 
 the audience, 
 
 As in Paris. 
 
 [Then he bangs the stage with it three times. 
 He loves this classic touch. Then he 
 calls out to George {we must suppose), 
 whom we guess to be the presiding genius 
 at the "back "/'Music!" 
 
10 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 The Music begins. It is a small orchestra 
 to be sure. But if you have two double- 
 basses and enough fiddles on top you can 
 manage to make the flowing of a river 
 sound quite well. The music makes you 
 think of the Styx {which is a deep bass, 
 never ending, four in a bar, sort of 
 river) before ever Uncle Edward and 
 Alice draw you the curtains and show 
 you the picture. Rather an awesome pic- 
 ture it is with the cold blue river and the 
 great black cliffs and the blacker cypresses 
 that grow along its banks. There are signs 
 of a trodden slope and a ferry, and there's 
 a rough old wooden shelter where pas- 
 sengers can wait; a bell hung on the 
 top with which they call the ferryman. 
 And under this now sits Hipponax, the 
 Greek philosopher ; and he is ringing the 
 bell very violently and unphilosophically 
 indeed. 
 
 Alice goes back to her seat. She can see 
 the scenes from there by twisting her head 
 far round, and she often does. For 
 whether things on the stage go right or 
 wrong, they never go the same way twice, 
 so it is always interesting. 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 11 
 
 alice. This is the banks of the Styx. That 
 is ... Oh, I said that before. 
 
 hipponax. Ferry ! Hie ! Ferry ! 
 
 [He rings and rings, but only the black cliffs 
 echo back the hollow sound of the bell. 
 
 hipponax. So I was right ! There is no 
 ferryman ; there are no gods. But yet, though 
 I died of brain fever yesterday afternoon, here 
 still, in some sense, am I. Which confirms the 
 fact that I am an extraordinary man. In the 
 last world I proved that there were no gods 
 because, said I ... it was very simple ... I 
 have never seen them. And in this world . . . 
 if by any means I can get across that river . . . 
 I'll prove in a second volume that there are 
 none here either. 
 
 [And now comes Mercury, who is as beautiful 
 and as calm as the statue of him that 
 rests — as if but for a moment — on its 
 black plinth in the Naples Museum. If 
 that statue could move like a faun, that 
 is what Mercury should be; so it isn't 
 easy to find an actor to play him. And 
 his voice must be clear and sweet. Not 
 loud. But his words must be like the 
 telling of the hours — as befits a god. 
 
n THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 He stands there in his glory. But Hip- 
 ponax still tugs at the bell and grumbles, 
 for he sees nothing but empty air. 
 
 hipponax. [With a final snap and pull.] 
 Ferry ! ! Not a soul about. 
 
 alice. He can't see Mercury because he 
 doesn't believe in him. 
 
 [Then comes Charon from the ferry with his 
 long pole. He is but a half -god and so can 
 grow old, older and ever old, though he 
 may never die. He looks at Hipponax 
 with great contempt. 
 
 CHARON. Another of these philosophers! 
 
 hipponax. I have rung this bell I don't 
 know how many times. 
 
 charon. I heard you. 
 
 hipponax. You heard me. [Then he swells.] 
 Do you know who I am? Hipponax. 
 
 charon. Do you know who I am ? Charon. 
 
 hipponax. Charon ! 
 
 [It is as if trees and rocks had begun to speak 
 to him. His breath goes, he fishes wildly 
 for his book, his immortal work they 
 called it, so naturally he did manage to 
 bring one copy out of the world with him. 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE IS 
 
 There's no such — ! [But Charon is so very 
 real.] Oh ! Well, I'll mention it in a foot- 
 note. 
 
 Charon. Stop your foolish talk, man, and 
 stand up. Don't you see who is with me? 
 
 hipponax. There's no one with you. 
 
 [Then the voice of the god is heard. Music to 
 us. And even to Hipponax, now, it is as 
 if the air round him were gently shaken. 
 
 charon. Take care. 
 
 mercury. Charon, the two obols. 
 
 [Charon, humbly saluting, takes his fee. 
 
 charon. If you can't see, can't you hear 
 him? 
 
 hipponax. I heard nothing. 
 
 charon. Give him your mask and cloak 
 to hide the light from his eyes that dazzles 
 you. 
 
 hipponax. Give who ? 
 
 charon. It's Mercury, the Messenger. 
 
 [Hipponax, himself, is shaking a little now. 
 Charon takes from him his mask and his 
 ragged philosopher' s cloak, and, sure 
 enough, as they hang where he places them 
 they seem to cover a human shape. 
 
14 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 ALICE. And that's the beginning of Harle- 
 quin's clothes. 
 
 hipponax. Nonsense. These conjuring tricks. 
 
 There are no gods. I've proved there are no . . . 
 
 [Mercury has lifted the mask and at sight 
 
 of that radiance, as if lightning had struck 
 
 him, Hipponax falls to the ground. 
 
 Charon. Now you've blinded him. 
 mercury. No blinder a worm than he was 
 before . . . denying the sun. What are you? 
 hipponax. [Without lifting his head.] I was 
 once ... a sort of philosopher. 
 
 mercury. Really ! Row him across, Charon ; 
 loose him among the shades of the poets and 
 children, and in pity they may teach him to see. 
 charon. Come along. 
 
 [He handles him with about that sort of 
 
 kindness — and no more than enough 
 
 of it — which you spend on a mangy cur. 
 
 But then he stops. 
 
 What's that ? Someone swimming my Styx. 
 
 On the bank . . . shaking himself. Momus, 
 
 my half-brother. 
 
 [And on bounds Momus. He is the comic 
 man, it's easy to see. Well, gods and 
 godlings must be made to laugh sometimes, 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 15 
 
 and since life is simple to them, they laugh 
 at the simplest things. Walking is rather 
 serious. So Momus never walks; he 
 waddles, and they laugh at that. It is 
 serious to stand straight. So he is always 
 knock-kneed and bandy-legged, and they 
 laugh like anything. And, as they never 
 grow old, jokes never grow old to them and 
 they never ask for new ones. So this is 
 always Momus' s welcome cry when he 
 comes to make them laugh . . . 
 
 momus. Yes . . . here we are again. 
 
 charon. And in a nice state. 
 
 momus. Almost almighty Mercury, take 
 me with you. I know why Psyche went . . . 
 she was as bored as I am. I can help you find 
 her. For if she's up to mischief, I shall soon 
 know where she is. 
 
 [Though he looks very, very funny as he pleads, 
 Mercury shakes his head. 
 
 Don't go thinking because you're so clever, 
 you can do better without a fool like me. 
 Saturday afternoon it is. If, when Jupiter 
 starts work on Monday, there's no one to draw 
 the corks of the bottled lightning . . . look 
 out for trouble. Come along, too, Charon. 
 
16 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 CHARON. I? 
 
 momus. Yes, you're growing ever so dull. 
 A week on earth will do you good ... if you're 
 not too much of an old 'un. 
 
 charon. I'm not an old 'un. 
 
 momus. You are an old 'un. 
 
 [And when a thing isn't really funny, say 
 it twice and it often sounds so. Charon 
 is tempted. 
 
 charon. I can't leave the boat. 
 
 hipponax. Oh, take me back to earth again. 
 They'll mock at me on the other side of this 
 hellish river . . . play tricks on me . . . 
 
 mercury. Charon, give him your oar. He 
 shall mind the boat till Monday. A final and 
 a wholesome exercise in what he calls his philos- 
 ophy, to row all day from a place he has never 
 understood to a place he doesn't believe in. 
 
 hipponax. I can't row. 
 
 momus. You don't know what you can do 
 till you try. You'll have more muscle by 
 Monday. 
 
 charon. Can you get good wine below ? 
 
 mercury. To your boat, philosopher. 
 
 [What is a blind man to question the voice of 
 a god ? He turns to the hated river, tapping 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 17 
 
 the ground with his pole. Now comes a 
 joke, one of the very oldest. 
 
 momus. One moment. 
 
 hipponax. [As he turns back, hopeful of 
 respite.] What is it ? 
 
 momus. How far would you have got if I 
 hadn't called you back? 
 
 [Mercury hardly smiles. But Charon is 
 abandoned to mirth. He slaps his old 
 knees with his hands. 
 
 charon. He's a funny fellow. 
 hipponax. Dull clown ! 
 
 [And he starts again. But there's another 
 joke he must be part of, just as old and just 
 as silly. 
 
 momus. No, no ! Turn to the right, and 
 to the right. Still to the right. And again to 
 the right. That's right. 
 
 [Round and round went Hipponax until 
 he found his path again. Silly . . . and 
 unkind? Yes, Nature and children with 
 their parables of humour sometimes seem 
 to be so . . . but only if we lose all touch 
 with them. Then the voice of Mercury 
 is like music . . , 
 
18 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 mercury. Come ; earthwards both of you. 
 I smell the spring and fields and flowers. Is 
 that Pan piping ? No, a bird's song. Such little 
 things as that does Psyche love and seek. On we 
 go. 
 
 [Mercury is gone. You should wonder how, 
 though it looks mere walking. Charon 
 is walking after, so tame an exit that it 
 will never do. 
 "Give us a back, old 'un," says Momus, 
 and leap-frogs him. Poor old back, it 
 gives way. For Momus is a weight in- 
 deed. But if you can't laugh at your 
 own hurts, what can you laugh at? So 
 Charon totters after, chuckling as he rubs 
 his bones. 
 And Uncle Edward and Alice draw the blue 
 curtains. Uncle Edward's eye questions 
 the audience. They don't so often applaud 
 this scene. For one thing, they're still 
 settling down. And then, applause is 
 not the only sign they're liking it, nor yet 
 the best. But you can tell by the feel of 
 them. Edward can. And if it's a 
 friendly, happy, a sort of "home ~y" feel, 
 why then, the quieter they sit the better. 
 But Alice only thinks of how the actors 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 19 
 
 do, and she is never too pleased with 
 this scene. It's never beautiful enough to 
 look at. . Mercury {poor dear!) is never 
 really like a god. And so she hurries to 
 the next. 
 
LICE. The next part is going to be 
 all in dumb-show, because it's in the 
 fifteenth century, and that's how 
 they used to play things in the fif- 
 teenth century, when they played heaps of Har- 
 lequinades . . . and Uncle and I and the actors 
 are nothing if not correct. 
 
 uncle edward. True. 
 
 Alice. But first we are going to skip an 
 awful lot, all the part about the Early Ages, 
 and the Middle Ages and all about how the 
 gods gradually became actors ... 
 
 uncle edward. Better tell them. 
 
 Alice. Well, it's rather difficult to under- 
 stand. But you know if you stop believing in 
 a thing, such as fairies, or that you like choco- 
 late, or that your Uncle's fond of you . . . after 
 a bit it somehow isn't there any longer. That's 
 what nearly happened to the gods. But Mer- 
 cury knew that if people won't believe a thing 
 when you say it's real, they'll just as good as 
 
 20 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 21 
 
 believe it and understand it a great deal better 
 when it only seems make-believe. And that's 
 Art. And as the easiest art in the world is the 
 art of acting ... I hope they didn't hear [She 
 wags back her little head to the proscenium.] . . . 
 the gods became actors. 
 
 uncle edward. Now you get back to the 
 story. It's all they [He wags his big head at the 
 audie?ice.] care about. 
 
 ALICE. Yes. Momus helped Mercury find 
 Psyche, and they all had a tremendous time and 
 hoped it would never be Monday. For every 
 time they got to the end of a century they 
 wanted to stay and see what would happen in 
 the next. Like when you eat nuts it's so very 
 difficult to stop at any particular nut, isn't it? 
 Now I . . . 
 
 uncle edward. But they don't want to 
 hear about you. 
 
 alice. Sorry. 
 
 uncle edward. And don't gabble. This 
 ain't the metaphysics, which they can't abear. 
 This is facts. They respect facts. 
 
 ALICE. I hate facts. They're so dull. It 
 was when they became actors they got their 
 new names. Harlequin and Columbine and 
 Clown and Pantaloon. And they travelled 
 
 4k. 
 
22 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 from Greece into Italy, where Charon got 
 called Pantaloon because he acted an old gentle- 
 man of Venice, and Saint Pantaleone is a patron 
 of Venice, and there were heaps of people 
 called Pantaleone there in the fifteenth. . . . 
 
 [Uncle Edward is snapping his fingers and 
 pointing to his trousers.] 
 
 Yes, I know. Even to-day Pantaloon is still 
 wearing the very Venetian clothes of the time 
 when he first played the part. He's got on 
 the first pantaloons ever worn, and his hair is 
 tied in a lovelock. Clown and Pantaloon have 
 got white faces. By this time funny actors, 
 who acted in dumb-show, used to put flour 
 on their faces, like Pierrot you know, because 
 the theatres were so dark and they wanted to 
 show their expressions. Then there's the scene. 
 I do hope you'll like the scene. It's supposed 
 to be Italy, and I think it's beautiful. Any- 
 how it's the kind of scene we have to have so 
 as not to take up too much room. And it has 
 beehives in it. Columbine keeps two, one for 
 bees and one for butterflies. 
 
 [// is part of Alice's regret, for which she 
 keeps a nearly secret sigh, that we couldn't 
 have real bees and butterflies. She thinks 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 23 
 
 it would be so jolly to see the bees and 
 butterflies go among the audience and 
 settle on the buttonholes and sprays they 
 wear and bring back the sense of gardens 
 to the people there. 
 
 Uncle, do you know how Clown told me how 
 to tell the difference ? 
 
 uncle edward. You minx ! 
 
 alice. Put your hand into the butterfly 
 hive, and if they sting you, you know it's the 
 bees. 
 
 uncle edward. Did he? Well, go on and 
 tell them the rest. 
 
 alice. Yes. Columbine has run away again. 
 The story's always got to be that. Either 
 Columbine runs away from somebody, or 
 somebody runs away with her. That's be- 
 cause the soul is always struggling to be free. 
 This time Cousin Clown and Uncle Pantaloon 
 helped her. She could twist them round her 
 little finger. And she made a great mistake 
 in running away with this very sham-serious 
 young man. 
 
 uncle edward. Sham-serious ? 
 
 alice. He only thinks he's serious because 
 he reads books all day long. And she married 
 
24 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 him, and he's turned out to be most awfully 
 dull. And I'm most awfully sorry for her. 
 He treats her like a bit of furniture. Isn't 
 it funny the way the soul will fall in love . . . 
 and with the most unaccountable people ; and 
 you know how you say " I can't think what 
 she sees in the man. ..." But a god can see 
 . . . and an artist. And Harlequin's a bit of 
 both. So when he comes along . . . Uncle, 
 the rest of it isn't a very nice story. Will they 
 mind? 
 
 uncle edward. They? They'll like it 
 all the better. 
 
 Alice. Well, you see the husband being so 
 dull, she wants somebody to take her out and 
 show her things and be attentive. And there's 
 the Man of the World. And things are getting 
 rather serious. For Cousin Clown and Uncle 
 Pantaloon aren't any use. They're just stupid 
 and friendly and nice, like all one's country 
 cousins. But just in time comes Harlequin- 
 Mercury. He has no wings left to his feet, 
 because you wear off wings rather soon if you 
 wander about the world. And his wand hasn't 
 any snakes left. It's just painted white wood. 
 And it's a good thing we've come to the jokes 
 about the sausages, because, now Harlequin's 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 25 
 
 only a strolling player, he's sometimes awfully 
 hungry. 
 
 uncle edward. Very true. Are they 
 ready ? j 
 
 alice. I'll see. 
 
 [So she turns and sticks her head through the 
 curtains. 
 Yes. 
 
 UNCLE EDWARD. Music. 
 
 [And the music begins again. 
 Some are all for a bell, and again others are 
 for a gong, but . . . 
 
 [He wields his trusty mallet for three hard 
 whacks on the floor. And then the two 
 of them draw back the curtains on the 
 second scene. 
 
LINE of dark cypress trees; a 
 blue sky and an Italian landscape. 
 A path to a house. A young man 
 lying on the ground reading. His 
 name is Gelsomino. The music tells him 
 that he hears Columbine. He stirs, looks 
 round, frowns, and goes back to his book. 
 Columbine flies out of the house. 
 Alice. [Radiant and proud.} This is Col- 
 umbine. 
 
 [And what should Columbine be like? Well, 
 she is just like what you'd most like her 
 to be. She has a rose in her hand. 
 She stops as she sees her husband, then 
 shyly puts out her arms to him, but he 
 cannot see that, for his back is turned. 
 She creeps up to him and drops the rose 
 on his book. He brushes the rose away 
 and waves her away too. 
 
 He's not really angry, but you see he's mar- 
 ried to her, and he can't bear being interrupted. 
 
 26 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE W 
 
 [Columbine stands looking — deliberately 
 looking her prettiest; wistful, appealing. 
 
 I think that's been her mistake. If she'd . . . 
 
 UNCLE EDWARD. Sh ! 
 ALICE. Sorry ! 
 
 [Mechanically he has put the rose in the 
 book for a marker, and is moving away. 
 But now we see — or if we don't see, we 
 hear in the music — the Man of the 
 World on his way. 
 The Man of the World. I told you ! 
 
 [Such a man of the world! But when you 
 can dress in vermilion and purple and 
 gold and wear the biggest cloak and the 
 largest sword that ever was and twist your 
 moustache as outrageously as you please, 
 what's easier than to fascinate such a 
 child as Columbine? She curtseys to 
 him as he bows to her. She beckons to 
 ' her husband to join them. But he, lost 
 now in the landscape, now in his reopened 
 book, waves only a distant greeting, and 
 will not budge. The Man of the World 
 smiles a most worldly smile, and soon he 
 and pretty Columbine are strolling towards 
 the house; she looking down at the flagged 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 walk and the flowers that border it, he 
 looking down at her, with eyes too greedy 
 ' to be kind. 
 
 What a pity, isn't it? 
 
 [Then the music tells us quite unmistakably 
 that Pantaloon and Clown are tumbling 
 along. 
 
 Listen ! Pantaloon and Clown ! They are 
 always coming to lunch. Because if actors 
 like this know there is lunch . . . 
 
 UNCLE EDWARD. Hush ! 
 
 [And on they tumble; the Pantaloon and 
 Clown that Children know! Clown has 
 a basket that he slyly sets down and Panta- 
 loon falls over it, of course. Gelsomino 
 joins them, willy-nilly; for they fetch him 
 there, because Clown has a joke to tell. 
 
 Alice. This is the beehive and butterfly- 
 hive story. The music does bees and butter- 
 flies beautifully, doesn't it? And I told you 
 the joke besides, so it's quite easy to follow. 
 Gelsomino never sees it. He is dull. 
 
 [Clown does sigh deeply over Gelsomino 1 s 
 unmoved face. But he tries again. He 
 takes from his basket the entirely impossible 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 corpse of a cat. Pantaloon chuckles si- 
 lently. But Alice laughs out loud. 
 
 Oh! I'd forgotten that one. It's one of 
 his very old ones . . . but I like it. He says 
 . . . "Somebody's thrown away this perfectly 
 good cat." Gelsomino doesn't think it a bit 
 funny. 
 
 [Gelsomino doesn't. He sniffs and retires 
 disgusted. Clown juggles with the cat 
 to cheer himself up. Then he flings it 
 recklessly high in air and you hear it fall 
 {the big drum does this) with a loud 
 plomp in the road. 
 
 Back stroll Columbine and the Man of the 
 World. But she is looking up at him 
 now, and the music tells us that her heart 
 is beating fast. She welcomes Clown and 
 Pantaloon with a kiss, one for each. 
 Clown is so funny when he is kissed. 
 And she makes them known to the Man of 
 the World. Clown is so funny when he 
 bows. He can't bow all he wants to with- 
 out knocking Pantaloon over. Then Col- 
 umbine has to help pick him up and com- 
 fort him and kiss him again. Then there 
 is the meal to be prepared. Off they run, 
 
30 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 all three, and on they bring it, drinkables, 
 eatables, table and chairs. 
 
 Only Gelsomino sits aside. The Man of 
 the World goes to him to ask what book so 
 absorbs him, friendly, faux bonhomme. 
 Gelsomino responds at once. Books are 
 important. And, as he lifts his up, the 
 rose drops out. The Man of the World 
 picks it up and — "May he keep such a 
 trifle?" "By all means," nods Gel- 
 somino, wondering. And Columbine, 
 there with the dish in her hands, sees it, 
 and — there's very nearly no macaroni 
 for lunch. 
 
 But some one else sees it, too — sees it and 
 sees all. This is Harlequin, who has 
 sprung somehow from behind the trees. 
 
 There's Harlequin . . . with his wand and 
 his mask. He's watching. Now you watch. 
 
 uncle edward. What are you laughing at ? 
 The many times you've seen this ! 
 
 alice. I never can help it. This is where 
 Clown tries to steal the breakfast, and he never 
 remembers that Harlequin's close behind. 
 
 [And, indeed, while the others most ostenta- 
 tiously don't see, Clown and Pantaloon do 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 31 
 
 steal bread and sausages and beer — and 
 into the basket they all go. Not the 
 beer; that goes down the neck of Clown. 
 Then Columbine calls them to breakfast. 
 Harlequin is presented to the company. 
 Gelsomino has greeted him even more 
 coldly. 
 
 He is weary of her relations. 
 
 [But, behold, they discover there is no break- 
 fast. Clown discovers it, and is more 
 amazed and innocent than any. Colum- 
 bine is in despair. But Harlequin rises 
 and waves his wand and strikes on the 
 table, and breakfast appears. Clown, in 
 a panic, turns to his basket. But, behold, 
 that is empty now. 
 
 Then they have breakfast. And Clown gets 
 a lot and Pantaloon very little. Gel- 
 somino hasn't come to the table at all, so 
 Columbine goes to fetch him. But he isn't 
 hungry, he won't come. And, turning, 
 disappointed, she sees the Man of the 
 World lifting, not his glass to toast her, 
 but the rose. Harlequin sees, too. And 
 he rises to wave his wand again. Gel- 
 somino starts to move away. 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 He's getting so cross. And he says . . . 
 " Do, for Heaven's sake, let me read in peace." 
 Y o*u know ! 
 
 [But, with a flash of his wand, Harlequin 
 strikes the book. 
 
 There ! He has magicked the book all 
 empty. 
 
 [And, sure enough, we see Gelsomino turn the 
 empty pages in despair. It is the sim- 
 plest of tricks. Then Harlequin points to 
 where the Man of the World woos Colum- 
 bine with those eyes of his, those greedy 
 eyes. But Gelsomino will not see. 
 
 He's out of temper now, so he pretends he 
 doesn't care. 
 
 [Harlequin points to the rose that Gelsomino 
 so lightly let fall. The Man of the World 
 is pressing it to his lips. 
 
 He points to the rose because that's a — 
 that's a . . .! Oh, what's the word, Uncle? 
 
 uncle edward. Symbol. 
 
 alice. Thank you . . . Symbol of Colum- 
 bine's true wifely love for him. And what 
 the pointing says is : Are you going to throw 
 that away, too? Don't be a silly fool ! 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 33 
 
 [The Man of the World is taking his leave. 
 
 The rose is at her lips now. 
 
 And what h e says is T o - n i g h t . . . just 
 
 like that. Only I can't say it. Which means 
 
 he'll come back to-night and carry her off 
 
 and love her ever so. And he might, what's 
 
 more, if it wasn't for . . . ! But you'll see. 
 
 [Suddenly Gelsomino goes to Columbine and 
 
 demands the rose, imperiously, with a 
 
 gesture not to be denied. 
 
 That means he says he's her husband, and 
 
 can't he have it if he likes? And she won't 
 
 give it him now. And she's quite right. I 
 
 wouldn't either. Nor would any woman. Look ! 
 
 [And Columbine has torn the rose in pieces 
 
 and flung them on the ground, and flung 
 
 herself off. And then Gelsomino flings 
 
 himself down in self-reproachful despair. 
 
 But all this flinging shows a lover's quarrel, 
 
 and there's life and hope in that. But 
 
 Alice is young and stern. 
 
 Serve him right ! And if it wasn't for 
 Harlequin. . . . 
 
 UNCLE EDWARD. Hush ! 
 
 [Harlequin has called to Clown and 
 Pantaloon. And, like conspirators, they 
 
34 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 stand there and most elaborately they 
 weave a plot. It's a most difficult plot 
 to follow. It involves a dark night and 
 tiptoes and a signal given. It involves, 
 too, a cloak and a skirt and a bonnet for 
 Clown; and this attracts him so much he 
 can attend to little else. 
 
 Alice. Do you guess what's going to happen ? 
 Uncle, they've forgotten the lights. Oh, this 
 is the bit I love. 
 
 uncle edward. [In a hoarse whisper.] St ! 
 George ! 
 
 [Suddenly on the little stage day becomes 
 night. What had George to do with it ? 
 [In a hoarse whisper still.] Bring 'em round 
 a bit . . . the number two steels. 
 
 [And the moon, obediently turning, floods 
 
 the little stage. Indeed it is pretty. 
 
 Uncle Edward can't contain himself. And 
 
 he has given it away anyhow. 
 
 Romantic, isn't it? And just the colour 
 
 moonlight ought to be. 
 
 [The music tells us this is real romance. 
 Dark figures are flitting among the trees. 
 Who are they? Gelsomino, Harlequin, 
 Pantaloon. The Man of the World, 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 35 
 
 wrapped dramatically in a great black 
 cloak, arrives. "Arrives" is poor. He 
 approaches. Pantaloon totters down to 
 him. "Wait, and your love will come." 
 He waits and his love comes, waddling most 
 amazingly and wrapped in the tablecloth. 
 We are sure it's Clown, and who wouldn't 
 be? But the Man of the World — for a 
 real Man of the World — is strangely de- 
 ceived. He kneels to her adoringly; he 
 rises and would embrace her passionately. 
 alice. "Love of my life," he says. "Let 
 us away !" 
 
 [Harlequin waves his wand. The tablecloth 
 has gone. It is Clown indeed, clownish 
 and undoubted. 
 
 Yes, it's Clown, it's Clown, it's Clown ! 
 And Clown says: — "Whither away, fair sir?" 
 And the Man of the World just withers. 
 
 [He grinds his teeth, does the Man of the 
 World {if there is anything in the orchestra 
 that will do it). And he goes, defeated. 
 "Exit, baffled, the Man of the World." 
 
 Alice is breathless. 
 
 Harlequin and Gelsomino are alone now, and 
 Harlequin wraps Gelsomino, all trembling 
 
36 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 as he is, in the cloak which the Man of the 
 World dropped there. They wait. Then 
 comes poor Columbine creeping in, timid 
 and ashamed. She half-dreads from the 
 stern cloaked figure. She turns to her 
 home to kiss her hand to it. But Harle- 
 quin with his wand lures her forward. 
 And she goes, she goes. Then the wand 
 is waved again, and the cloak is off. It 
 is her husband; and she shrinks, this 
 time in terror. He stands like a stone. 
 She waits for a blow — for a curse. But 
 suddenly he kneels among the petals 
 of the forgotten rose. Is it he begging 
 forgiveness of her ? She has no thought 
 for that; only that she always loved him. 
 She bends to him, he takes her hands. 
 He rises and she lifts her face. Their 
 lips join. 
 Alice and Uncle Edward draw the curtains. 
 
 There ! That's how they get back among 
 the gods. 
 
E don't travel to the next Scene too 
 quickly. Alice has gone back to her 
 little chair, and there she sits silent, 
 her chin cupped in her hand, her eyes 
 dreamy. Uncle Edward clears his throat 
 noisily several times. Then he puts on 
 his spectacles and looks at her. 
 
 uncle edward. Wool-gathering ? 
 
 alice. I love a love story. And she's such 
 a darling, and always, all through the ages, 
 all through what Clown calls the longest week- 
 end on record, she falls in love and falls in love 
 . . . and falls in love. 
 
 uncle edward. Come, now, it's only story- 
 telling. Don't let it get on your mind. Here, 
 I want to speak to you. 
 
 [Alice most obediently goes over to him, and 
 he whispers to her. 
 alice. [By no means in a whisper.] But 
 perhaps George is busy with the next scene, 
 
 37 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 uncle edward. Never you mind. 
 
 [Away she goes and through the curtains, 
 
 leaving Uncle Edward to fill his pipe. 
 
 But she's back almost at once and full of 
 
 smiles. 
 
 uncle edward. [Anxiously.] Well, what 
 
 did he say ? 
 
 ALICE. He said : — "I was thinking of having 
 one myself, Miss Whistler." 
 
 [And there follows her through the curtains a 
 
 hand and arm holding a foaming pint of 
 
 beer, which she takes across to her Uncle. 
 
 The beer goes the way of all beer. 
 
 uncle edward. [After wiping his mouth, most 
 
 politely, with the cheerfullest looking handkerchief 
 
 you ever saw.] On the warm side. Go on with 
 
 your bit. 
 
 [Alice takes her talking place again, feet 
 
 together, hands behind her. Then a long 
 
 breath. 
 
 Alice. So the years went by. And they 
 
 acted in Italy, and they acted in France, and 
 
 they acted in England. W T hich is where we've 
 
 got to now, in about seventeen hundred and 
 
 something. All sorts of odd people got added 
 
 to the company, and dropped out again on the 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 39 
 
 journeys. In France they found Pierrot. But, 
 being a Frenchman, he hated travelling ; so 
 they left him there. Nobody knows who Pierrot 
 was ... at least I don't. 
 
 uncle edward. My dear, if we start on 
 what we don't know, we'll be here all night 
 . . . and the next. 
 
 Alice. I'll skip lots then ... all about 
 Mr. Rich and the great Harlequins. People 
 liked them better than Garrick ! And now we 
 come to the next story. It's England, and it's 
 London. It's about Columbine running away. 
 It must always be about that. The hero runs 
 away with her. Or, strictly speaking, p'raps 
 this time it's her that runs away with him. 
 
 uncle edward. Grammar. 
 
 Alice. Her ... or she that runs away with 
 he ... or him ! She's a country girl come to 
 be a chambermaid in London. A singing cham- 
 bermaid, she is ; they had them in the old plays, 
 and it must have brightened the hotels lots. 
 And she's called Richardson for short. Harle- 
 quin's a valet in the same house. And why 
 they're servants now instead of actors is be- 
 cause it was about this time people began to 
 think that Art and Religion and Love were 
 things you could just ring the bell for, and up 
 
40 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 they would come and wait on you. So this is 
 another sort of a . . . symbol. And the gods 
 have lost their magic. 
 
 uncle edward. [Much alarmed.] What ? 
 
 Alice. All right, Uncle ; it's to make a sur- 
 prise. [And then to reassure the audience, who, 
 bless them, aren't alarmed at all.] They really 
 haven't, and they never can. They may lose 
 their magicky magic ; for the world grows up 
 like we do. But Harlequin can still see deep 
 into the hearts of men, and Columbine's so 
 sweet that you can't help loving her though you 
 don't know why. And that's the realest magic 
 of all. There ! 
 
 Pantaloon's the hero's lawyer . . . because 
 when you're an old 'un you're always a bit of a 
 lawyer . . . you can't help it. And Clown is 
 Charles, his friend, a country squire, come up 
 to swagger in London because they did. The 
 story's the same story really ... it always 
 is ... just twisted about. The Italian young 
 man was buried in books, which was bad enough. 
 But this young man is so drowned deep in him- 
 self . . . which is worse . . . that he's almost 
 nothing but clothes. In fact he has so dropped 
 right through himself, that he isn't himself 
 at all. There's nothing left of him but the 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 41 
 
 reflection in his mirror. In his mirror ! Do 
 remember that . . . it's important. . . . And 
 Harlequin has to make a man of him . . . 
 because Harlequin is the spirit of man wanting 
 to come to life. It's the young man's wedding 
 morning, and Harlequin-valet — is putting out 
 his wedding suit. There's a Woman of the 
 World this time instead of a Man of the World, 
 who is going to marry him only for his money. 
 But Columbine, the chambermaid that he has 
 never even noticed . . . 
 
 [Behind the closed curtains a girVs voice is 
 heard singing a simple country song. 
 
 There ! they've begun . . . because I've been 
 so long. That's her song. She sings as she 
 goes through the rooms a-dusting them. And 
 when she sings, little wild flowers grow up 
 through the chinks of the boards. 
 
 uncle edward, I suppose they are ready. 
 
 [She pokes her head between the curtains. 
 Uncle Edward has really melted to this 
 last touch. He is wreathed in smiles. 
 She's a wonderful child. Knows the whole 
 thing backwards. Thinks of new bits for her- 
 self ! I call to mind her mother saying . . . 
 [Alice has turned back. 
 
42 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 Alice. Ready when we've counted twenty. 
 
 UNCLE EDWARD. Right. 
 
 [Alice counts: you can see her lips move. 
 Uncle Edward hums his counting as an 
 accompaniment to the little song. 
 
ND so we have got to the Eighteenth 
 Century. And we're to have a comedy 
 of manners, and a nice study of 
 clothes. All rather shapely; for it 
 contains a real Beau, and the only valet 
 who was ever a hero, and the only hero 
 who ever had Mercury to valet him. 
 
 There is a good deal of dressing up in this 
 scene, and a neat ploy of dressing down, 
 and a man's soul comes into being all over 
 an affair of a looking-glass. Which makes 
 a pretty piece of work. 
 
 Alice knows Hogarth through the — shall we 
 say? — nicer prints, and Austin Dobson 
 through the daintiest of Ballads. This 
 scene is a sort of mixture to her of 
 early reading, and visits with her Uncle 
 to the National Gallery, and old bits of 
 China, and dumpy little leather -bound 
 volumes of u The Spectator", the real 
 " Spectator", which she can just remember 
 on the fourth shelf from the top near the 
 window. 
 
 43 
 
44 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 You may add, for your own personal satis- 
 faction, when you are sitting and looking 
 on, all that tense excitement the very words 
 u Eighteenth Century" awaken in the 
 properly balanced mind. Wigs and 
 coaches and polite highwaymen, and lonely 
 gibbets on still more lonely moors, and the 
 Bath road with its chains and posts, all 
 come into the background. Pedlars and 
 cries of Pottles of Cherries, Puppet Show- 
 men, and Clowns on stilts and French 
 water gilders, and the sound of swords 
 early in the morning in Leicester Fields: 
 the touch of them all should be there. 
 And also St. James's Street crammed 
 with sedan chairs, and black pages with 
 parrots, and the rattle of dice at White's 
 or Almack's, and the hurrying feet of the 
 Duke of Queensberry' s running footmen. 
 Such romantic dreams should come to 
 you. Sliding panels and gentlemen driv- 
 ing heiresses to Gretna Green, and secret 
 meeting places, and Fleet marriages and 
 the scent of lavender, musk, and ber- 
 gamot I 
 
 But the song is nearly over and the curtains 
 are drawn back. 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 45 
 
 The room might be a background to a picture 
 by Zoffany, dim and mellow and empty. 
 There is a door leading to the passage; 
 another that must lead to the Beau's bed- 
 room. There is a fireplace with a fire 
 burning. A portrait of the Woman of 
 the World is over the fireplace. There is 
 a dressing-table by the fireplace, with a 
 tali wig stand and a big arm-chair by 
 it. There is a bureau with writing ma- 
 terials. There are cupboards in the wall 
 full of clothes and stockings and shoes. 
 The bedroom door is open. 
 
 Harlequin -Valet stands listening until the 
 sound of the song dies away. He has a 
 clothes' brush in his hand. Then he 
 places the clothes he has been brushing on 
 the Beau's chair in a ridiculous sem- 
 blance of a man. He adds a wig to the 
 wig stand which is behind it, puts a patch 
 on the wig block; a cane to one sleeve, a 
 snuff-box to the other ; puts shoes to their 
 place, so that the stockings dangle into 
 them, and then stands back to admire his 
 work. He bows low. 
 
 Columbine dances on with a feather brush 
 in her hand. He takes her to the clothes^ 
 
46 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 and presents her to them with every formal- 
 ity. She curtseys. 
 
 Alice. You see, she's a new maid, and he's 
 pretending that that's her master. Lord Eg- 
 lantine . . . Betty Richardson ! It's rather 
 wicked of them. 
 
 [Harlequin waves his clothes 1 brush, and the 
 wig stand bows back. He waves it again, 
 and all the clothes tumble together in a 
 I heap. 
 
 One hears the front door bang. Harlequin 
 waves Columbine into the bedroom, sweeps 
 the clothes together into a neat pile and 
 stands waiting by the door. There enters 
 Lord Eglantine, the Beau. A trifle pale, 
 disordered, calm. He has been gambling 
 all night. To the rhythm of a minuet 
 Harlequin takes his cloak, hat, and cane, 
 takes off his coat and gets him into a 
 gorgeous dressing-gown, and so into his 
 chair. And there he sits looking for all 
 the world like the bundle of clothes come 
 to life. 
 
 In the next room Columbine begins to sing 
 again, and Lord Eglantine leans forward 
 to listen. 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 47 
 
 eglantine. Maunds of cowslips, honey bags 
 of bees ! Whose voice is that ? 
 
 harlequin. Ten thousand pardons, my lord, 
 it is the chambermaid. 
 
 eglantine. She has a name ? 
 
 harlequin. Richard son, my lord. 
 
 eglantine. Richardson. Are there people 
 called Richardson ? Interesting ! 
 
 harlequin. I will stop her, my lord. We 
 did not expect your lordship to return so 
 soon. 
 
 eglantine. No. A woman singing ... in 
 my bedroom. Dusting yesterday's cares away 
 to make room for the cares of to-morrow. Put 
 that down. I may want to say it again. What 
 is she singing? You know everything. 
 
 harlequin. A country song, my lord. 
 
 eglantine. Is the country like that ? Hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 [The word has hardly left his lips before the 
 handkerchief, neatly unfolded, is in his 
 hand. What a valet! 
 
 She has stopped. Put the door ajar so that 
 I see her. 
 
 [Harlequin looks at the door. It opens and 
 stands obediently ajar. 
 
48 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 A picture of innocence. Putting her hair 
 tidy before my mirror. She is like a . . . 
 . . . [He has almost forgotten those little things 
 that grow so prettily.] . . . when I was a boy 
 they grew in the garden. 
 
 harlequin. Flower, my lord ? 
 
 eglantine. I must give her a guinea. 
 Give me a guinea. Send her to me. 
 
 harlequin. Certainly, my lord. 
 
 [He beckons to Columbine, and she dances 
 on. 
 
 eglantine. So you are a chambermaid? 
 
 [Richardson curtseys. That's a poor way to 
 describe it. It is a bob rustic indeed, but 
 it veils Columbine very slightly. She is 
 like one of the flowers of Keats, " all tiptoe 
 for a flight." Into the room with the arch- 
 valet and the very tired, elegant modish 
 man she has come like the scent of mignon- 
 ette through the window. His lordship's 
 mind stirs even under its counterpane of 
 cards and dice and buttered claret and 
 snuff and fripperies, and one might 
 think he heard the echo of a thrush's song 
 sung when he was a boy {Unbelievable 
 thought), and climbed trees. 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 49 
 
 And where do you come from ? 
 harlequin. The country, my lord. 
 eglantine. I lived in the country once. 
 There used to be things one picked in the hedges 
 
 [He has forgotten those, too. 
 harlequin. Blackberries? 
 eglantine. I don't think they were called 
 blackberries. Things with a rough husky scent. 
 
 [Columbine's lips make a pretty pout. In an- 
 other moment we should hear Prim — ... 
 
 The girl has it. Primroses. One forgets. 
 One lives to learn to forget. [He likes the 
 sound of that. It fits the sense. It is almost an 
 epigram.] A guinea, child, for the song. Sing 
 at your work. I like to hear you. 
 
 [She floats away. Eglantine has turned to 
 his mirror. 
 
 Fifteen thousand pounds lost and not another 
 wrinkle. Sir Jeffrey Rake had it of me last 
 night. They keep those rooms so hot. Quin, 
 am I pale? 
 
 harlequin. Perhaps a little, my lord. 
 
 [From nowhere in particular Quin (Harle- 
 Quin, you notice) produces the Beau's 
 
50 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 morning chocolate, which Eglantine sips 
 daintily. 
 
 eglantine. What do I do to-day ? 
 
 harlequin. At eight o'clock comes Mr. 
 Talon. 
 
 eglantine. A plaguy fellow, my attorney ! 
 And I have not slept a wink. What does he 
 want with us ? 
 
 harlequin. Among other things your lord- 
 ship's signature to the marriage settlement. 
 
 eglantine. Whose marriage settlement ? 
 
 harlequin. At ten o'clock your lordship 
 is to be married. 
 
 eglantine. So I am ! Heel-taps and Hy- 
 men's torches ! so I am ! Wonderful fel- 
 low, you remember everything ! But death 
 of my waistcoats ! Have I but two hours to 
 dress in? Not more. Begin on me . . . 
 begin. 
 
 harlequin. Pardon, my lord, the bell. 
 
 eglantine. That's the man of law. Show 
 him in. You can bring water in here . . . my 
 turban . . . pantoufles. 
 
 [The door opens and in totters Pantaloon. 
 You know him for Pantaloon, as you knew 
 him as Pantaloon for Charon, for all he's 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 51 
 
 Mr. Talon with his tie wig, his spectacles, 
 a?id his lawyer's blue bag. 
 
 harlequin. His lordship will receive you, 
 Mr. Talon. 
 
 pantaloon. To celebrate your master's wed- 
 ding day . . . two crowns. 
 
 harlequin. I am obleeged, sir. 
 
 [Quin takes the proffered money and salutes 
 in thanks. But — it's odd — the salute 
 is as when Charon saluted Mercury. 
 
 ALICE. D'you see ... in a dim sort of way 
 they remember themselves and Olympus. 
 
 eglantine. Mr. Talon, 'pon me honour, 
 as punctual as a creditor. Port? Madeira 
 or Port, Mr. Talon? Quin, Mr. Talon will 
 drink Madeira. 
 
 [Quin pours out the Madeira. Quin takes 
 his master's wig, beturbans him, brings 
 rose-water for his hands, cosmetics for 
 his face. Quin is everywhere. Quin does 
 everything. It is magical. 
 
 Mr. Talon, you look black at me. 
 
 [Mr. Talon, seated, warmed with his wine, 
 takes many red-taped papers from his 
 bag and a quill from a case. 
 
52 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 pantaloon. A goose quill. 
 
 eglantine. One of your own plucking? 
 
 pantaloon. Often too appropriate for the 
 signing of such documents. 
 
 eglantine. This the settlement? Small 
 house . . . strip of woodland . . . rentals of 
 farm . . . two hundred a year ! Is that all ? 
 
 pantaloon. It is all there is left to settle, 
 my lord ; all that is left to you of your estate. 
 
 eglantine. The Lady Clarissa may well 
 complain. 
 
 pantaloon. But if you had not pledged your- 
 self to pay her debts besides you would be still 
 twelve thousand five hundred pounds the richer. 
 
 eglantine. True ! 
 
 pantaloon. And I must warn your lord- 
 ship that all this done, if it's to be done, you 
 will have left to you a mere fifteen thousand 
 pounds in stocks. That, and no more in the 
 world. 
 
 eglantine. Fifteen ? 
 
 pantaloon. Exactly. 
 
 eglantine. How lucky. The very sum 
 I lost last night to Sir Jeffrey Rake. Had it 
 been more how could I have paid him? Had 
 it been less we should have been troubled with 
 the change. 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 53 
 
 pantaloon. My lord, my lord ! 
 eglantine. You seem distressed. Quin, a 
 glass of wine for Mr. Talon to restore him. 
 
 [In a flash Quin has re-filled his glass with 
 
 wine. 
 
 pantaloon. You are ruined ! 
 
 eglantine. So it seems. Rose-water for 
 my hands, Quin. 
 
 pantaloon. This is Sir Jeffrey Rake's re- 
 venge. It's said that he has wooed Lady 
 Clarissa while you won her from him. 
 
 eglantine. At fifteen thousand ! Cheap, 
 then, you'll admit at the price. 
 
 pantaloon. A cheap lady, no doubt, my 
 lord, at any price. 
 
 eglantine. You know her ? 
 
 pantaloon. Her reputation only. 
 
 eglantine. There's her portrait behind me. 
 I can't turn my head. Quin, bring me my 
 mirror. 
 
 [Mr. Talon studies the brilliant lady rather 
 doubtfully. 
 
 pantaloon. I trust she loves your lordship ? 
 
 eglantine. Gad's life ! I never asked her. 
 A monstrous unfair thing to ask of any woman 
 of the world. 
 
54 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 pantaloon. Doubtless she is grateful for 
 the sacrifice you make. 
 
 EGLANTINE. I hope not. 
 
 [Quin now has the mirror placed so that 
 Eglantine can view his bride-to-be. It 
 reflects other matters of importance, too. 
 
 Ah ... is that the new wig on the block ? 
 Vastly good ! Quin here, Mr. Talon, has a 
 magical touch at dressing a head. Gad, but 
 the wig block looks as lively as I do. The 
 mirror reflects her ladyship's portrait very 
 well. 
 
 pantaloon. You love her, my lord ? 
 
 [At this moment and at that word Harle- 
 quin waves his wand — it is a comb as 
 it happens — and next we hear Columbine 
 begin again to sing. 
 
 eglantine. Love, Mr. Talon, is a most 
 unmodish thing. It may be called . . .! That 
 girl is singing again ! 
 
 harlequin. She knows no better, my lord. 
 Shall I stop her ? 
 
 eglantine. No. But hand me my epi- 
 grams upon love. They slip my memory. 
 It's a pretty song. [The tablets are before him. 
 He glances over them.] Now, let's see. Love 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 55 
 
 is a . . . [But he is caught by the song.] Art- 
 less as a bird ! Love . . . [That fine epigram 
 seems out of place beside the song.] When 
 a woman loves you, she . . . [But while that 
 girl is singing, he simply cannot read the foolish 
 words.] That might be the oldest song in the 
 world ! 
 
 harlequin. It is, my lord. 
 
 eglantine. [Gives back the tablets with the 
 wryest smile.] Take them, put them in the fire. 
 As epigrams well enough, Mr. Talon ; but per- 
 haps the simple truth is, that I do not love her 
 ladyship. 
 
 [And the song ceases. 
 
 harlequin. Pardon me, my lord; once 
 more the bell ! 
 
 [Quin disappears to answer it. 
 
 eglantine. Gad, no more delays, or my 
 bride will be kept waiting at the Church. 
 
 pantaloon. Listen to me, my lord. Pay 
 these debts of hers in full, make this settlement 
 as you intend, and you are a pauper. 
 
 eglantine. But yet a gentleman who has 
 given his word and not broken it. 
 
 pantaloon. You will at least allow me to 
 postpone the payment of the debts till you are 
 
56 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 safely married. Caution's our lawyer's trade 
 mark. Her ladyship might die, might change 
 her mind at the very altar ! 
 
 eglantine. I will not allow you to cast a 
 doubt either on her perfect health or her per- 
 fect honour . . . nor let the shadow of one rest 
 on mine. 
 
 pantaloon. But, my lord, why has she 
 begged you keep your marrying secret till 
 to-day ? 
 
 eglantine. Perhaps she is not very proud 
 of me, my dear Talon. It is possible. 
 
 [Harlequin flashes through the doorway and 
 announces . . . 
 
 harlequin. Sir George Rustic. 
 
 [// is Momus. Devil a doubt it is also our 
 old friend, Clown. 
 
 eglantine. Welcome, my dear George, so 
 soon again. We didn't part till six. 
 
 clown. Damned if we did. A rake-helly 
 place is London to be sure, but after Somerset 
 ... I tell 'ee, I likes it. I been home since, 
 washed hands and face ! No ; washed hands 
 . . . not face. Then to White's for my choc- 
 olate, and picked up the latest smack of gossip 
 . . . the best there's been in weeks . . . good 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 57 
 
 enough to come along and tell 'ee. So here we 
 be again. 
 
 eglantine. My attorney, Mr. Joseph 
 Talon. 
 
 clown. Han't we met somewhere before? 
 
 pantaloon. It is possible, sir, but it must 
 be a while ago. 
 
 clown. I seem to know 'ee. I've got an 
 uncle called Joey. 
 
 alice. You see they always nearly 
 remember. 
 
 clown. No pleasant business a-doing by 
 the looks of you. I guess it, and don't wonder. 
 What was your joke as we started the cards? 
 Man who sits to gamble at night had better 
 have called his attorney betimes in the morn- 
 ing. 
 
 eglantine. Ah, well remembered. Pray 
 redeem, Mr. Talon, as soon as may be, my note 
 of hand for fifteen thousand from Sir Jeffrey 
 Rake's steward. 
 
 pantaloon. My lord. 
 
 CLOWN. And it's him that this bit of gossip's 
 about that I've come to tell 'ee. Dang it, the 
 best that ever you heard. You must know . . . 
 
 eglantine. George, we detain Mr. Talon, 
 who has business to do and no care for gossip. 
 
58 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 pantaloon. Oh, believe me, my lord, for 
 an old 'un . . . 
 
 clown. So we do believe you, Mr. Joseph 
 . . . sprier than many an old 'un, I'm sure. 
 
 eglantine. A parting glass of wine to cheer 
 you. George, help Mr. Talon and yourself. 
 [Harlequin waves his wand — a napkin it 
 is this time — and the glasses are filled. 
 
 clown. Your health, Mr. Talon. 
 
 pantaloon. Yours, Sir George. Long life 
 to you, my lord. 
 
 EGLANTINE. Life ! 
 
 [Pat on that word — that most commanding 
 word — Columbine' s song breaks forth 
 again. And this time loud and clear. 
 
 Ah, stop that singing, it hurts me. Dismiss 
 the girl ! Pack her out of the house ! I can't 
 bear it. 
 
 harlequin. Very good, my lord. 
 [He waves his wand and the song stops. 
 
 clown. Another glass, Mr. Joseph. 
 
 pantaloon. I thank you, Sir George. 
 
 clown. While I tell you my story. For it's 
 the best story . . . ! 
 
 pantaloon. One moment. In this glass 
 may we drink to the bride ? 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 59 
 
 clown. Yes, and it's about a bride. 
 
 pantaloon. With his lordship's permission. 
 . . . "The bride!" 
 
 clown. The bride? Whose bride? I 
 mean, whose bride is this ? 
 
 pantaloon. His lordship's. 
 
 clown. Yours, Eglantine? Well, by the 
 clocks on my stockings ! 
 
 pantaloon. It has been kept a secret. 
 
 eglantine. You leave this deed of settle- 
 ment with me ? 
 
 pantaloon. To hand to her ladyship when 
 the ceremony ends. 
 
 eglantine. What's this little farm like 
 with its two hundred a year ? Where is it ? 
 
 [Mr. Talon doesn't know, it seems. Then, 
 it is Harlequin who speaks. 
 
 harlequin. If your lordship pleases, it 
 happens very strangely to be the place where 
 Richardson, our singing chambermaid, was 
 born ; where she lived till I brought her here. 
 
 eglantine. Her home ? 
 
 harlequin. Her home, my lord. 
 
 eglantine. I must keep this safe, Quin. 
 
 [Quite tenderly — though why ? — he lays 
 the parchment by his side. 
 
60 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 clown. Damme, I want another glass to 
 pull me over the shock, old Talon. 
 
 pantaloon. An excellent wine. It reminds 
 me of the time . . . 
 
 eglantine. [Watch in hand.} Let it remind 
 us all of the time. Mr. Talon, Lady Clarissa's 
 lawyers expect you at nine with the bonds for 
 twelve thousand five hundred pounds. Don't 
 let me detain you. 
 
 clown. Lady Clarissa ! But that's the very 
 name . . . 
 
 eglantine. Stay, George, and bring me 
 to the church and tell me your story on the 
 way. You'll pardon me, my wedding suit 
 awaits me. 
 
 [He goes out. Be-wigged, rouged, be-pow- 
 dered, his dressing-gown gathered about 
 him; like a splendid vision he jades into 
 his bedroom. 
 
 PANTALOON. I must gO. 
 
 clown. No, not without a final glass. 
 We've settled the Madeira, but there's still 
 the Port. 
 
 [Harlequin waves a powder puff. And the 
 empty decanter is full and the full one 
 empty. 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 61 
 
 pantaloon. No, no, Sir George, we've 
 
 settled the Port, but there's still the Madeira. 
 
 [Harlequin waves. And the empty is empty 
 
 again. But the full one is empty, too. 
 
 clown. Oh, Joey, Joey, we've settled them 
 
 both. 
 
 [There they stand, all three, grouped as we 
 know them so well. 
 alice. Look, oh, look ! There's the Harle- 
 quinade ! 
 
 PANTALOON. I must gO. 
 
 [And he goes. 
 eglantine. [From within.] Quin ! 
 harlequin. My lord. 
 
 [And he vanishes. 
 eglantine. And now for your story, George, 
 if while I dress, it will carry through a door. 
 [The scene you cannot see is, of course, of 
 tremendous importance. A Beau dress- 
 ing for his wedding I It couldn't be done 
 upon the stage because no audience roughly 
 coming in from their dinner ridiculously 
 dressed in black clawhammer coats could 
 appreciate the niceties of the toilette of a 
 Beau, so far, so very far removed from the 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 uncultured vulgarities of the Nut. They 
 say that even the very silk-worms who span 
 to make him silk for his coats are set aside 
 from the silk-worms who spin silk for per- 
 sons of grosser habit. And every flower 
 embroidered on his coat is perfumed with 
 its proper scent. And a girl has gone 
 blind through making the filmy froth 
 of lace about his throat. 
 
 clown. It's carrying round London by 
 this time. You know Sir Jeffrey Rake ? 
 
 EGLANTINE. I think SO. 
 
 clown. Yes, don't you. You lost enough 
 to him last night. 
 
 EGLANTINE. I did. 
 
 clown. He's been this year past, it seems, 
 sweethearting . . . and a bit more . . . with a 
 famous lady of fashion here in town. But he'd 
 not a penny, and she'd ten thousand pounds 
 of debts. So marry they couldn't till she hit 
 on a plan. 
 
 eglantine. Indeed ? 
 
 clown. A fine lady's plan. She was to 
 cozen some wealthy fop and swear to marry 
 him if he'd pay those debts of hers. D'you 
 mark that ? 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 63 
 
 eglantine. I mark it. 
 
 clown. There's more to come. The night 
 before the wedding was to be . . . last night as 
 ever was ... if Sir Jeffrey didn't win at cards 
 a cool fifteen thousand from the same poor 
 fool. And this very morning, off have the 
 precious couple gone ! Married by this, begad 
 they are; he with his pockets lined, she free 
 of her Jews. It'll be all over town in an hour. 
 And the fool fop is dressing for his wedding! 
 Now did ever you hear the like of that? 
 [There is silence in the other room. 
 I say, did ever you hear the like of that? 
 Is your master there, Quin ? 
 
 harlequin. [Who is passing in and out.} 
 To some extent he is, Sir George. 
 
 clown. Gad, let me think a minute . . . 
 though the wine's in my head. What sum did 
 you lose to Sir Jeffrey last night ? Your bride's 
 name was Clarissa. ... I heard it. And 
 Clarissa Mordaunt's the name of that fine 
 lady. Odds, Bobs and Buttons! You're not 
 the fool fop, Eglantine, are you ? 
 
 [Is it Eglantine who enters? There stands 
 something for a moment like a dead thing 
 dressed in a bridegroom's splendour. It 
 
64 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 is as if some ice-cold hand had plucked 
 at his heart. Yet he is calm; the poise 
 remains true, the subtle artifice is there. 
 But the crushing blow to his pride is in 
 his pale face, and his voice rings bitterly 
 when he says : 
 
 EGLANTINE. I was. 
 
 clown. I'm sorry. I might have guessed. 
 I mean, of course I couldn't have guessed . . . 
 that any man would be such a fool ... I 
 mean . . oh, gad, I . . . 
 
 Alice. He never opens his mouth but he puts 
 his foot in it. That's what he's trying to say. 
 
 clown. But there's time yet. Old Talon 
 can't have paid the money to her lawyers by 
 this. Jeffrey Rake boasted too soon. I'll 
 run to stop it. 
 
 eglantine. Pray, do nothing of the sort, 
 George. 
 
 clown. But I will. An't I your friend? 
 What's the address ? 
 
 eglantine. My pistol, Quin. 
 
 [The pistol is in his hand. 
 
 clown. And the fifteen thousand Rake 
 won. Hold it back. We'll call him out and 
 do for him . . . one of us. 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 65 
 
 eglantine. Must I go so far as to shoot 
 you in the leg, my dear George, to convince you 
 that it will be an errand ill run . . . that they 
 are welcome to their gains . . . that I count 
 myself well rid of them. 
 
 clown. Oh ! You don't count on my not 
 telling the story, do you ? 
 
 eglantine. Though I shot you as dead 
 as mutton, every joint would squeak it, I feel 
 sure. 
 
 clown. Oh ! 
 
 eglantine. Quin ; the door. 
 
 clown. Oh ! 
 
 [Still he stands, grinning there. 
 eglantine. George, we are keeping my 
 servant in a draught. 
 
 [Clown waddles out. Harlequin vanishes 
 too. He is back in a moment to find 
 Eglantine sunk in the chair facing the 
 mirror to see — finery! And what else? 
 Quin. In the glass there ... is that Eglan- 
 tine? 
 
 harlequin. Till this moment your lordship 
 has been pleased to think so. 
 
 eglantine. The country girl that sang. 
 I had her sent away. 
 
66 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 harlequin. Since the song caused your 
 lordship some discomfort. 
 
 eglantine. Stop her before she goes. [He 
 takes the parchment from the table.] Stay, 
 give me pen and ink. This is for her when 
 the name is altered. Her home I think you 
 said. . . . 
 
 [Harlequin vanishes again. Eglantine most 
 carefully erases the one name and writes 
 in the other. Then he rises, pistol in 
 hand, and faces himself in mirror, looks 
 himself full in the face. 
 
 And now, Lord Eglantine, since you are he ! 
 Peg for clothes, scribbler of epigrams, now to 
 end and for ever your tailor's dream. 
 
 [And he fires. But he doesn't fall. Instead, 
 the mirror cracks and a puff of smoke 
 comes from it. Alice must not interrupt 
 the story or she would; and she aches to, 
 because she always fears the audience may 
 not grasp the point. Lord Eglantine was 
 a reflection of his time in the polished 
 mirror of his age. Until he blew the re- 
 flection into smithereens, he had no soul, 
 no reality. A wig, a box of patches, snuff, 
 silk, lace, a clouded cane, a neat sense for 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 67 
 
 words, that was Eglantine, and now he 
 has become, in all humility, a man. Back 
 comes Harlequin to find him. 
 harlequin. My lord ! 
 eglantine. A slight accident. 
 harlequin. The noise has wakened our 
 neighbours. 
 
 eglantine. On my honour it has wakened 
 me. 
 
 harlequin. Richardson ! 
 
 [Columbine appears. 
 Kindly pick up his lordship's pieces. 
 
 [She has her little dust-pan and brush, and 
 most neatly she does so. Eglantine — 
 a new Eglantine — watches her, and the 
 thought of a new life is born in him. 
 
 eglantine. We've a few guineas in the 
 house, I suppose? 
 
 harlequin. A few, my lord. 
 
 eglantine. Enough for a coach hire to 
 the country. A penniless fellow such as I 
 am, Quin, would she welcome me to her home, 
 I wonder? 
 
 harlequin. But I fear that this parchment 
 fails of its effect unless your lordship is married 
 to the owner. 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 eglantine. But not a bad idea, Quin. 
 [Then he sighs doubtfully.] Would she think 
 so? 
 
 harlequin. Let us ask her when she has 
 picked up the pieces. 
 
 [And here Alice and Uncle Edward draw 
 the curtains, for the scene is over. But 
 Alice still stands fingering their folds. 
 Her eyes smile, but her mouth droops a 
 little doubtfully. She is never over-happy 
 about this scene. " Very pretty" she 
 hears the front row people say; and then 
 they rustle their programmes and read 
 about whiskey very old in bottle, or 
 cigarettes, a very special blend. "Very 
 pretty" is so patronising. Someone else 
 remarks u How quaint" ; and that is 
 worse still. Miles away from us is the 
 meaning of that eighteenth century with 
 its polished perfections. So perfect, yet 
 so partially perfect, that mankind could 
 only break them all to pieces and start 
 again. But Alice, tidy little soul, loves 
 the fine order of it all. If they embroidered 
 flowers so well, they must, she thinks, have 
 loved the very flowers, too, and such good 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 manners must have meant that somewhere 
 
 underneath the silk and stays they had 
 
 kind and worthy souls. But her mouth 
 
 does droop a little, and she asks her uncle, 
 
 almost whispering : 
 11 Do you think they understood it?" 
 11 Any child could understand it" Uncle 
 
 Edward says, and back to his paper he 
 
 goes. 
 Alice gives a shy glance round. She doesn't 
 
 mind now if they do hear. 
 "But that's the trouble, as poor Auntie used 
 
 to say: 'They're not children.'' Don't 
 
 we only wish they were." 
 Once more, then, Uncle Edward sizes up the 
 
 house; a good house now, a contented 
 
 house, a bread-and-butter house not to be 
 
 quarrelled with. 
 11 You take your public as you find 'em, my 
 
 Missie," he says, or rather, this he only 
 
 seems to say. His words are: "Alice, 
 
 get on with your bit." 
 So Alice smiles again, and smooths her 
 
 frock and puts her heels together and turns 
 
 out her toes, and gets on. 
 
LICE. [As she faces them.] I beg 
 your pardon. Well, that was in 
 seventeen hundred and something. 
 And we skip the eighteen hundreds 
 because they were so busy : too busy to play, 
 except just riotously, and we skip to-day, too, be- 
 cause . . . well, really because what we showed 
 you about to-day with bits of "you" put in 
 it might seem rather rude. And we skip to- 
 morrow, because to-morrow really is too serious 
 to make our sort of jokes about. So we go 
 right on to the day after. And you've noticed, 
 haven't you, that we go westward all the time? 
 So next the scene's in America, which you get 
 to through New York. Things have been 
 going from bad to worse with our four poor 
 gods, but what has principally knocked them 
 endways is machinery. Now America is full 
 of machinery. And they can't understand it. 
 For whatever a machine is supposed to do in 
 the end, there's one thing it always seems sure 
 to do in the beginning, if you're not very, very 
 
 1° 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 71 
 
 careful. And that is to knock the spirit out 
 of a man. Which is his magic. Clown and 
 Pantaloon and Harlequin and Columbine are 
 very simple folk, you know. They let them- 
 selves be just what it's most natural to be, and 
 only try to give their friends in front . . . kind 
 friends in front, they call them . . . just what 
 will make them happiest quickest. So this is 
 what they've come to be by this time, Clown 
 and Columbine, Harlequin and Pantaloon. No 
 names but those, no meaning, no real part at 
 all in the rattle and clatter of machinery which 
 is now called Life. They're out of it. They 
 clung to the skirts of the theatre for a bit. But 
 the theatre, aching to be "in it", flung them 
 off. The intellectual drama had no use for 
 them, no use at all. And so they found them- 
 selves (out of it indeed) busking on the pave- 
 ment, doing tricks and tumbling and singing 
 silly songs to the unresponsive profiles of long 
 lines of ladies (high-nosed or stumpy-nosed 
 ladies), waiting admittance to the matinees of 
 some highly intellectual play. And with glasses 
 on those noses they'd be reading while they 
 waited the book of that same play : so even 
 then our poor gods busked in vain. But worse, 
 far worse. . . . 
 
72 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 Along came the Man of the World again. 
 He calls himself the Man of Business 
 now. "Do the Public really want this sort 
 of stuff?" he said. "Well, let 'em have 
 it. But as a Business Proposition, if you 
 please." 
 
 So he bought up all the theatres, and he said 
 he'd make them pay. And his cousin, the Man 
 in the Street, took shares. And they organised 
 the Theatre. And they made it efficient. 
 And they conducted it on sound commercial 
 lines. And the magic vanished and people 
 wondered where and why. Now what we're 
 going to show you, you won't believe could 
 ever happen at all. It does seem like the 
 cheapest of cheap jokes. But really if we 
 will think magic's to be bought and sold, and 
 if we leave our gods to starve because there 
 isn't any money in their laughter or their 
 tears . . . well, it's more than the Theatre that 
 may suffer. But the poor pampered Theatre 
 is our business now, and here's our cheap, cheap 
 joke about it. You aren't expected to laugh 
 ... in fact, perhaps you shouldn't. It's one 
 of those jokes you smile at, crookedly you know, 
 this joke of the Theatre as it well may be the 
 day after to-morrow if some of us don't look out. 
 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 73 
 
 [And with that we hear music. It's a rag- 
 time tune, and something about it hurts 
 us. After ten bars we find out what and 
 why. It is the theme of the gods cheap- 
 ened and degraded. Music is of all the 
 arts the directest epitome of life. Not 
 a noble thing in it that cannot, it would 
 seem, with just a turn or two, be turned 
 to baseness. 
 
 Alice and Uncle Edward draw back the cur- 
 tains, and there's another curtain to be 
 seen. It is not beautiful to look at — but 
 it's useful. It has six advertisements 
 painted on it in "screaming" colour. 
 "Eat and keep thin 11 says one. "Drink 
 and keep sober 11 says the next, and Some- 
 body's Patent Something is the way. 
 " Indulge freely ; we take the consequence " , 
 the motto runs beneath the two. "Patent 
 pearls that will deceive an oyster 11 says 
 the third. The fourth's a Face Cream, 
 and the fifth's for Shattered Nerves. The 
 sixth says, "Believe in our Patent God and 
 you shall assuredly be saved. 11 From one 
 side comes the Man of the World — Man 
 of Business — Business Manager. Silk 
 hat, dress coat, white waistcoat, shiny 
 
74 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 shirt, patent boots, and big cigar; he's very 
 smart and prosperous indeed. From the 
 other side come the four poor gods, out of 
 work buskers of the streets, down at heel 
 and weary. But still gods, and with a 
 god-like snap of ill-temper to them for you 
 to know them by. 
 
 clown. Morning. 
 
 man of the world. Afternoon. 
 
 clown. Is it? Now [Says he to the others], 
 you leave it to me, and let's all keep our tem- 
 pers. See here, Mr. Man, is this the old 99th 
 Street Theay ter ? 
 
 man of the world. This, sir, and you know 
 it as well as I do, is nothing so out of date. It 
 is Number 2613 of the five thousand Attrac- 
 tion Houses controlled by the Hustle Trust 
 Circuit of Automatic Drama : President, Mr. 
 Theodor B. Kedger. But it is located on 99th 
 Street, New York City. 
 
 clown. Are you the boss ? 
 
 man of the world. I am a deputy sub- 
 inspector of the New York and New Jersey 
 division of the circuit. 
 
 clown. Can we have a job, me and my pals, 
 here? 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 75 
 
 man of the world. You cannot. 
 
 clown. And why not? 
 
 man of the world. Because you are super- 
 seded. 
 
 clown. What's that ? 
 
 pantaloon. I'll super if there's nothing 
 better. 
 
 clown. Where is the durn President? 
 
 man of the world. I learn from the fash- 
 ionable intelligence that he is at present cruising 
 the Mediterranean on his electric yacht. 
 
 clown. Where's the author of the piece ? 
 
 man of the world. There ain't no author 
 of the piece. This present item is turned out 
 by our Number Two Factory of Automatic 
 Dramaturgy ; Plunkville, Tennessee. 
 
 clown. Where are the other actors . . . 
 God help 'em ? 
 
 -- man of the world. There ain't no actors ; 
 we froze all them out way back. Where've you 
 been that you've grown all these mossy ideas 
 on you ? 
 
 clown. Never you mind. Tell us, what's 
 come to the poor old 99th Street Theayter . . . 
 and how. 
 
 man of the world. Well, I guess I need only 
 quote you from Volume One of the Life of Mr. 
 
76 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 Theodor B. Kedger, our esteemed President 
 . . . Nit ! [And as he says " Nit, 11 if it were not 
 for all the anti-expectoration notices hung round 
 he would certainly spit.] It is stacked ready 
 to put on the market the day he passes in his 
 checks. Hold on now. About the year 1918 
 Mr. Kedger, who had already financially made 
 good over the manipulation of wood-pulp 
 potatoes, synthetic bread, and real estate, 
 turned his attention to the Anglo-American 
 Theatre. For the Anglo-American Theatre 
 did not pay. Here was Mr. Kedger's oppor- 
 tunity. Forming a small trust, he bought up 
 the theatres, both of the Variety and of the 
 Monotonous kind, bought up the dramatists 
 with their copyrights present and future, 
 bought up the actors — 
 
 pantaloon. Didn't buy me. 
 
 man of the world. Didn't count you. 
 
 clown. Cost much ? 
 
 man of the world. [He winks.] The pay- 
 ment was partly made in shares. He then paid 
 the Dramatists considerable sums not to go on 
 writing, which was, of course, a clear profit. 
 He paid the actors to stop acting, which was 
 in some cases a needless expenditure of money. 
 He also brought in the Cinema and Gramophone 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 77 
 
 interests, organising the whole affair upon a 
 strictly business basis. 
 
 pantaloon. He left us out. We've had 
 cruel hard times, but I'm glad he left us out. 
 
 man of the world. Then followed some 
 years of experiment in the scientific manu- 
 facture and blending of drama. As I speak, no 
 less than twenty-three factories dot the grassy 
 meads of America. The work is done by clerks 
 employed at moderate salaries for eight hours 
 a day. For the cerebration of whatever new 
 ideas may be needed, several French literary 
 men are kept in chains in the backyard, being 
 fed exclusively on absinthe and caviare sand- 
 wiches during their periods of creative activity. 
 No less than forty different brands of drama 
 are turned out, each with its description stamped 
 clearly on the can. While a complete equip- 
 ment for anyone can be travelled by the 
 operator in his valise, still leaving room for 
 toothbrush and slumber-suit. 
 
 clown. Do the public like the stuff ? 
 
 man of the world. They've got to like it. 
 They get none else. 
 
 clown. Can't you give us another chance? 
 I'll lay we could make good. 
 
 man of the world. Sorry, sonny, but I 
 
78 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 don't see how you'd fit in. Watch this at- 
 traction I'm going to try over. 
 
 clown. You still rehearse, do you ? 
 
 man of the world. Once. Would you like 
 to watch ? Then you'll see. 
 
 clown. What's it called? 
 
 man of the world. It's called "Love: a 
 Disease", and it's Number seventy-six of the 
 High Brow Ibsen series. It ain't got nothing 
 to do with Ibsen really, but his is still a name 
 that sells. He was a German professor of 
 mathematics and highly respected in his day. 
 I'll have you see a bit of one act. 
 
 columbine. What's the plot ? 
 
 man of the world. No plot. It's a home 
 life story, a conversation. A man is telling a 
 woman that he is just bored stiff with every- 
 thing on earth. 
 
 PANTALOON. Ah ! 
 
 man of the world. And she doesn't know 
 what to say. That's the first act. 
 
 clown. Gosh ! 
 
 man of the world. In the next he's asking 
 her advice as to whether a really tired man 
 ought to marry. And she doesn't know. 
 
 clown. How long does that take ? 
 
 man of the world. Quite a while. 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 79 
 
 clown. Which is the act we are going to 
 see? 
 
 man of the world. The third. It contains 
 the action. About half-way through he moves 
 across to her and says : "Don't cry, little girl, 
 I can always shoot myself!" And then he 
 finds out that she is stone deaf from birth, and 
 hasn't really heard a word he said. So she 
 goes forth into the world to learn the Oral sys- 
 tem, while he awaits her return, when he will 
 begin again. Are you ready? I'll ring up. 
 
 [Quite wonderfully the big cigar shifts to one 
 corner of his mouth, almost in line with his 
 ear, and he whistles shrilly. The curtain 
 of the "six ads." flies away, and there's 
 the automatic drama in full swing. Three 
 canvas walls, liberally stencilled in the 
 worst Munich style. And in this space are 
 two pink gramophones on two green ped- 
 estals. One is gilt-lettered * l A rthur. ' ' The 
 other silver-lettered i l Grace. ' ' The trumpets 
 incline to each other a little, for this is a 
 love scene going on. On a white framed 
 space in the back wall, stage directions 
 are written moviely. This one spells 
 out "Arthur is still speaking. He crosses 
 
80 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 his legs and takes an asthma cigarette." 
 Then the gilt-lettered phonograph croaks: — 
 
 Arthur. After all, what is love but a disease 
 of the imagination? Don't cry, little girl, I 
 can always shoot myself ! 
 
 grace. [Who croaks an octave higher.] I'm 
 not crying. Tell me more. 
 
 [Moviely the stage direction comes: "He 
 leans forward. 11 
 
 Arthur. But why should there be one law 
 for women and another for men? One law 
 for childhood and another for old age? Why 
 skirts, why trousers? Why those monotonies 
 of sensation and experience? Why this un- 
 reality, this hypocrisy, this cowardice, this 
 exaltation of the super-sham ? Why . . . ? 
 
 [Moviely at the back is written: "She leans 
 forward, too. 11 
 
 man of the world. Now the emotion 
 thickens ! 
 
 grace. Let us go back to the beginning. 
 
 pantaloon. I can't hear none of this. 
 
 clown. If you worked Pictures with it, it 
 mightn't be so bad . . . for them as likes this 
 sort of stuff. 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 81 
 
 man of the world. We do work Pictures 
 with the lighter and fruitier forms of drama. 
 But here they would only obfuscate the cere- 
 bration. Wait till she cerebrates. And she 
 cerebrates some! 
 
 grace. No child at her mother's knee was 
 more innocent than I. How then did knowledge 
 of good and evil come ? I will tell you. I will 
 tell you of the evil first ... 
 
 pantaloon. Columbine, you go and wait 
 outside. 
 
 grace. [With a louder croak.] Passion . . . ! 
 
 clown. Stop ! 
 
 man of the world. Don't interrupt. 
 
 clown. She ain't got no right to it with a 
 voice like that. 
 
 grace. Laughter . . . ! 
 
 clown. Never laughed in her life ! Never 
 had a life to laugh in ! 
 
 MAN of the world. Young man, if this 
 were a performance, you would be dealt with 
 by our aesthetic policewoman. Vulgar com- 
 ments made in public upon works of art are 
 now an indictable offence. 
 
 clown. Works of what ? 
 
 grace. . . . And the joy of life! 
 
 clown. Stop, I say ! 
 
82 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 man of the world. For the last time . . . 
 don't interrupt. 
 
 clown. I will interrupt. And I'll smash 
 those durned machines, though the last Clown 
 in the world is hung for it. For that's me 
 . . . that's me ! Oh, has it come to this, after 
 all we've done for the theatre! Haven't we 
 loved it, Grandfer, haven't we? My red-hot 
 poker's in pawn, and I've worn out the sau- 
 sages. But let's have a try to make him laugh. 
 Take the starch out of him ! Take the bank- 
 note rustle out of him ! Take the Theatre 
 from him. Save it and save him, too ! Come 
 on, old 'un. Kiss your hand, Columbine. 
 Harlequin, if you love me, if you love the 
 drama, have one more try. Magic . . . Magic ! 
 Turn these clicking clocks there back into whole- 
 some human bad actors again, and turn the 
 Deputy Inspector of the New York Circuit of 
 the Hustle Bustle Trust of Automatic . . . 
 
 [Columbine trips across the stage. Pantaloon 
 chuckles. Clown tumbles head over heels 
 and sends the Man of the World flying. 
 Harlequin leaps in the air and smites 
 with his wand the two pink gramophones 
 on the two green stands. They vanish! 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 83 
 
 Down through a trap goes the Man of the 
 World. Red Fire! And Alice, as she 
 tugs the curtains to, calls in her most 
 stentorian tones . . . 
 
 Alice. Grand transformation scene ! I al- 
 ways draw the curtains rather quick because 
 it never works quite right. 
 
 [She waits a little, and then, very simply, says 
 
 The gods go back . . . 
 
 [And stops and swallows. Poor dear, her 
 throat is dry. 
 
 uncle edward. You want your glass of milk. 
 
 alice. They don't ever really go. For 
 what would become of us without them? 
 But it rounds off the play. They just go 
 back as flowers die to come again forever. 
 For the seed of the gods is sown in the hearts 
 of men. The seeds of Love and of the Magic 
 of High Adventure and of Laughter and of Fool- 
 ishness, too. Well, when they reach the Styx 
 there still sits that philosopher, who wasn't a 
 philosopher at all because he sought no wisdom 
 but his own. Because of that, you see, he has 
 found none. There he sits, deaf and blind, 
 while Olympus flashes and thunders behind him. 
 There he sits, chattering that there are no gods. 
 
y 
 
 HE curtains are drawn back on the 
 last scene. The Styx again, flowing 
 black beneath its black mountains. 
 There sits the Philosopher, patiently. 
 He is dressed now as a Member of Par- 
 liament, or worse. He has a fountain pen 
 and a notebook. And the gods arrive. 
 Mercury, Charon, Momus, and Psyche. 
 
 philosopher. Who are you ? 
 
 mercury. We are the gods returning. 
 
 philosopher. [Very definitely indeed.] There 
 are no gods. Though from time to time it has 
 been necessary to invent them. 
 
 pantaloon. Why, it's my friend, the philos- 
 opher ! 
 
 philosopher. Pardon me. Nothing so un- 
 practical. I am a Political Economist. I 
 write Blue Books. I make laws. 
 
 mercury. Can you row us over ? 
 
 philosopher. What a question! I have 
 established several rowing academies. I know 
 how rowing is done. But, as a matter of fact, 
 
 84 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 85 
 
 I cannot row. Still it's of little consequence, 
 for the boat was given to a museum some time 
 ago. Besides, the latest theories tell us that 
 there is no other side. 
 
 clown. Ain't there? Well, I'm going to 
 swim and see. 
 
 philosopher. Pardon me, bathing is not 
 allowed in the Styx. 
 
 clown. Ain't it ? 
 
 [Off tumbles Momus, and you hear him splash 
 in the river. The Political Rconomist has 
 risen indignantly. Under the bench, dusty 
 and neglected, Psyche spies something. She 
 runs to see. With a little cry she picks 
 them up, and shakes and smooths them. 
 They are the Talaria. {Do you know what 
 Talaria are? Look up Mercurius in 
 Lempriere's Classical Dictionary.) 
 
 mercury. Wings ! My wings ! 
 
 philosopher. Yes, they are wings. Left 
 here by two children, and I hadn't the heart 
 to destroy them. But I hid them away ; they 
 are dangerous. The very sight of wings makes 
 men and women feel above themselves. 
 
 mercury. Bind them on. 
 
 [And Psyche kneels to bind them on his feet. 
 
86 THE HARLEQUINADE 
 
 Sir, I return you your rags and your mask. 
 They are at least more picturesque than 
 your present attire. Listen, the great gods 
 are waking ! Monday morning in Olympus. 
 Charon, stay with this fellow. He means 
 well by the world ; but teach him to rebuild 
 the boat. For when his work is done he'll 
 be glad to escape and to rest as you row him 
 across the river. Psyche, we're late. Let us fly. 
 
 [For the last time the blue curtains close. 
 
 uncle edward. Now, your last bit . . . 
 the bit the journalist wrote in your album. 
 
 alice. Oh, yes, if you please, you're to be 
 sure and remember that : — 
 In the noise and haste and bustle 
 Fairies on the lamplit pavements ; 
 Gods in gorse and heath and heather ; 
 Fauns behind the hedges playing ; 
 Pan about in any weather. 
 Children hear them, see them, know them ; 
 See the things the fairies show them, 
 Harlequin in magic poses ; 
 Columbine among the roses ; 
 Pantaloon in slippered ease is 
 Laughing at Clown's ancient wheezes 
 In the Summer, in the Spring, 
 
THE HARLEQUINADE 87 
 
 In the sunshine, in the rain, 
 Summon them and hear them cry — 
 " Here we are again." 
 That's all, isn't it, Uncle? 
 uncle edward. Yes, that's all. 
 ALICE. Good night. 
 
 [And so, the Harlequinade being over, we go 
 home. A little later Alice and Uncle 
 Edward and the actors, all rather tired 
 and ready for supper, start home, too. 
 
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