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 portrait of Miss Alexander.
What happened was this. A pleasant old Victorian art fancier (
of) saw the child one day, and noted that her name was Whistler ("No
relation," said her Uncle Edward, "so far as we know"), and "That's how
to dress her," said he. And thereupon he forked out what he delicately
called "The 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 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 puttin
a patent door that the fat members 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
of him. On most days it will be "The Times", on Wednesday it may be
"Punch", and on Saturdays "The Spectator." "That is a gentleman's
reading," 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" them. As the time of the performance
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 enjoying 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 never miss. There is nothing like it as a t
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 mean
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."
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 ... whenever 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 Harlequinade 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 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 weekends 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 spiritual geography.
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 dreadfully 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.
ALICE. Sorry! So I did. The Greek philosopher 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!"
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 picture 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 passengers 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.
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 mus
like the telling of the hours--as befits a god. He stands there in his
glory. But Hipponax 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.
There's no such--! [But Charon is so very real.] Oh! Well, I'll mention it
in a footnote.
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.
ALICE. And that's the beginning of Harlequin'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, 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.