Book: The Harlequinade
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Dion Clayton Calthrop and Granville Barker >> The Harlequinade
PANTALOON. Didn't buy me.
MAN OF THE WORLD. Didn't count you.
CLOWN. Cost much?
MAN OF THE WORLD. [He winks.] The payment 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 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
manufacture 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
sandwiches 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 equipment 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 don't see how you'd fit in. Watch
this attraction 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 everything 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.
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 system, 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
pedestals. One is gilt- lettered "Arthur." The other silver-lettered
"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 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."
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 unreality, this
hypocrisy, this cowardice, this exaltation of the super-sham? Why...?
[Moviely at the back is written: "She leans forward, too."
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.
MAN OF THE WORLD. We do work Pictures with the lighter and fruitier forms
of drama. But here they would only obfuscate the cerebration. 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 comments 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!
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
sausages. But let's have a try to make him laugh. Take the starch out of
him! Take the banknote 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 wholesome 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
two green stands. They vanish! 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 always 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
Foolishness, 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.
* * * * *
The 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 Parliament, 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 philosopher!
PHILOSOPHER. Pardon me. Nothing so unpractical. 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, 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
Economist 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.
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,
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.