Chapter 27
Enough, it wearies me.
PIERROT.
Then, rare Marquise, Desert the crowd to wander through the trees.
[_He bows low, and she curtsies; they move round the stage. When they pa.s.s before the Statue he seizes her hand and falls on his knee._]
THE LADY.
What wouldst thou now?
PIERROT.
Ah, prithee, what, save thee!
THE LADY.
Was this included in thy comedy?
PIERROT.
Ah, mock me not! In vain with quirk and jest I strive to quench the pa.s.sion in my breast; In vain thy blandishments would make me play: Still I desire far more than I can say.
My knowledge halts, ah, sweet, be piteous, Instruct me still, while time remains to us, Be what thou wist, G.o.ddess, moon-maid, _Marquise_, So that I gather from thy lips heart's ease, Nay, I implore thee, think thee how time flies!
THE LADY.
Hus.h.!.+ I beseech thee, even now night dies.
PIERROT.
Night, day, are one to me for thy soft sake.
[_He entreats her with imploring gestures, she hesitates: then puts her finger on her lip, hus.h.i.+ng him._]
THE LADY.
It is too late, for hark! the birds awake.
PIERROT.
The birds awake! It is the voice of day!
THE LADY.
Farewell, dear youth! They summon me away.
[_The light changes, it grows daylight: and music imitates the twitter of the birds. They stand gazing at the morning: then PIERROT sinks back upon his bed, he covers his face in his hands._]
THE LADY [_bending over him_].
Music, my maids! His weary senses steep In soft untroubled and oblivious sleep, With Mandragore anoint his tired eyes, That they may open on mere memories, Then shall a vision seem his lost delight, With love, his lady for a summer's night.
Dream thou hast dreamt all this, when thou awake, Yet still be sorrowful, for a dream's sake.
I leave thee, sleeper! Yea, I leave thee now, Yet take my legacy upon thy brow: Remember me, who was compa.s.sionate, And opened for thee once, the ivory gate.
I come no more, thou shalt not see my face When I am gone to mine exalted place: Yet all thy
All maids are kind to thee, yet never one Shall hold thy truant heart till day be done.
Whom once the moon has kissed, loves long and late, Yet never finds the maid to be his mate.
Farewell, dear sleeper, follow out thy fate.
[_The MOON MAIDEN withdraws: a song is sung from behind: it is full day._]
THE MOON MAIDEN'S SONG
Sleep! Cast thy canopy Over this sleeper's brain, Dim grow his memory, When he awake again.
Love stays a summer night, Till lights of morning come; Then takes her winged flight Back to her starry home.
Sleep! Yet thy days are mine; Love's seal is over thee: Far though my ways from thine, Dim though thy memory.
Love stays a summer night, Till lights of morning come; Then takes her winged flight Back to her starry home.
[_When the song is finished, the curtain falls upon PIERROT sleeping._]
_EPILOGUE_
[_Spoken in the character of PIERROT_]
_The sun is up, yet ere a body stirs, A word with you, sweet ladies and dear sirs, (Although on no account let any say That PIERROT finished Mr. Dowson's play_).
_One night not long ago, at Baden Baden,-- The birthday of the Duke,--his pleasure garden Was lighted gaily with_ feu d'artifice, _With candles, rockets, and a center-piece Above the conversation house, on high, Outlined in living fire against the sky, A glittering_ Pierrot, _radiant, white, Whose heart beat fast, who danced with sheer delight, Whose eyes were blue, whose lips were rosy red, Whose_ pompons _too were fire, while on his head He wore a little cap, and I am told That rockets covered him with showers of gold.
"Take our applause, you well deserve to win it,"
They cried: "Bravo! the_ Pierrot _of the minute!"
What with applause and gold, one must confess That_ Pierrot _had "arrived," achieved success, When, as it happened, presently, alas!
A terrible disaster came to pa.s.s.
His nose grew dim, the people gave a shout, His red lips paled, both his blue eyes went out.
There rose a sullen sound of discontent, The golden shower of rockets was all spent; He left off dancing with a sudden jerk, For he was nothing but a firework.
The garden darkened and the people in it Cried, "He is dead,--the_ Pierrot _of the minute!"_
_With every artist it is even so; The artist, after all, is a_ Pierrot-- _A_ Pierrot _of the minute, naif, clever, But Art is back of him, She lives for ever!_
_Then pardon my Moon Maid and me, because We craved the golden shower of your applause!
Pray shrive us both for having tried to win it, And cry, "Bravo! The_ Pierrot _of the minute!"_
THE MAKER OF DREAMS[28]
_A FANTASY IN ONE ACT_
By OLIPHANT DOWN