Chapter 2

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 yourself to pay her debts besides you would be still twelve thousand five hundred pounds the richer.

Eglantine.. True!

Pantaloon.. And I must warn your lordship 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.

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 revenge. 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.

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 Harlequin 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 epigrams 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 is a ... [But he is caught by the song.] Artless 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 perhaps 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 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 perfect 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.

[It 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 chocolate, and picked up the latest smack of gossip ... the best there's been in weeks ... good 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 morning.

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.

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?

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 settlement 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.

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-powdered, his dressing-gown gathered about him; like a splendid vision he fades 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.

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 Harlequinade!

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 dressing for his wedding! 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 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 persons 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?

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 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.

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 Eglantine?

Harlequin.. Till this moment your lordship has been pleased to think so.

Eglantine.. The country girl that sang. I had her sent away.

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 reflection into smithereens, he had no soul, no reality. A wig, a box of patches, snuff, silk, lace, a clouded cane, a neat sense for 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.

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 "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 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:

"Do you think they understood it?"

"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.

"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.

Alice.. [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, because ... 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 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 themselves 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 themselves (out of it indeed) busking on the pavement, 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 matinées 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....

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.

[And with that we hear music. It's a ragtime tune, and something about it hurts us. After ten bars we find out what and why. It is the theme of the gods cheapened 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 curtains, 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" says one. "Drink and keep sober" says the next, and Somebody'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" 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." From one side comes the Man of the World--Man of Business-- Business Manager. Silk hat, dress coat, white waistcoat, shiny 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 tempers. See here, Mr. Man, is this the old 99th Street Theayter?

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 Attraction 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?

Man of the World.. You cannot.

Clown.. And why not?

Man of the World.. Because you are superseded.

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 fashionable 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. Theodor B. Kedger, our esteemed President ...Nit! [And as he says "Nit," 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 opportunity. 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 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 the 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 bustleFairies 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 isLaughing at Clown's ancient wheezesIn 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.

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