Book: The Harlequinade
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Dion Clayton Calthrop and Granville Barker >> The Harlequinade
ALICE. He only thinks he's serious because he reads books all day long. And
she married 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 only a strolling player, he's sometimes
awfully hungry.
UNCLE EDWARD. Very true. Are they ready?
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.
* * * * *
A 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 Columbine.
[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 married to her, and he can't bear
being interrupted.
[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 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 Pantaloon 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 butterflies 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's unmoved face. But he tries
again. He takes from his basket the entirely impossible corpse of a
cat. Pantaloon chuckles silently. 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 without knocking
Pantaloon over. Then Columbine has to help pick him up and comfort him and
kiss him again. Then there is the meal to be prepared. Off they run, 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 Gelsomino, 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 ostentatiously don't see, Clown and
Pantaloon do 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 breakfast. Clown discovers it,
and is more amazed and innocent than any. Columbine is in desp
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.
Gelsomino 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. Gelsomino starts
to move away.
He's getting so cross. And he says ... "Do, for Heaven's sake, let me read
in peace." You 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 simplest of tricks. Then Harlequin points to where the Man of
the World woos Columbine 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 Columbine'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 Man of the World is taking his leave. The rose is at her lips now.
And what he says is To-night ... 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 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, 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 deceived. 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 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 Harlequin 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.
* * * * *
We 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 weekend on
record, she falls in love and falls in love ...and falls in love.
UNCLE EDWARD. Come, now, it's only storytelling. 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.
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. Which 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 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 chambermaid, she is;
they had them in the old plays, and it must have brightened the hotels
lots. And she's called Richardson for short. Harlequin's a valet in the
same house. And why they're servants now instead of actors is because 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 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 surprise. [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 himself ... 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 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 dosed curtains a girl's 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 herself! I call to mind her mother saying ...
[Alice has turned back.
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.
* * * * *
And 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 "The
Spectator", the real "Spectator", which she can just remember on the fourth
shelf from the top near the window.
You may add, for your own personal satisfaction, when you are sitting and
looking on, all that tense excitement the very words "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 Showmen, and Clowns on stilts and
French watergilders, 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 driving heiresses to Gretna Green, and
secret meeting places, and Fleet marriages and the scent of lavender, musk,
and bergamot!
But the song is nearly over and the curtains are drawn back.
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 bedroom. 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 tall wig stand and a big arm-chair by it. There is
a bureau with writing materials. 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 semblance 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, and presents her to them with every formality. She curtseys.
ALICE. You see, she's a new maid, and he's pretending that that's her
master. Lord Eglantine ... Betty Richardson! It's rather wicked of them.
[Harlequin waves his clothes' brush, and the wig stand bows back. He
waves it again, and all the clothes tumble together in a 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.
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. Richardson, 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? Handkerchief.
[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.
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 mignonette 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.
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 another 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 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 lordship'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 Hymen's torches! so I am! Wonderful
fellow, you remember everything! But death of my waistcoats! Have I but two
hours to dress in? Not more. Begin on me ... begin.