[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.
HARLEQUIN. Pardon, my lord, the bell.
EGLANTINE. That's the man of law. Show him in. You can bring water in here
... my turban ... pantoufles.
[The door opens and in totters Pantaloon. You know him for Pantaloon,
as you knew him as Pantaloon for Charon, for all he's Mr. Talon with
his tie wig, his spectacles, and his lawyer's blue bag.
HARLEQUIN. His lordship will receive you, Mr. Talon.
PANTALOON. To celebrate your master's wedding day ... two crowns.
HARLEQUIN. I am obleeged, sir.
[Quin takes the proffered money and salutes in thanks. But--it's odd--
the salute is as when Charon saluted Mercury.
ALICE. D'you see ... in a dim sort of way they remember themselves and
Olympus.
EGLANTINE. Mr. Talon, 'pon me honour, as punctual as a creditor. Port?
Madeira or Port, Mr. Talon? Quin, Mr. Talon will drink Madeira.
[Quin pours out the Madeira. Quin takes his master's wig, beturbans
him, brings rose-water for his hands, cosmetics for his face. Quin is
everywhere. Quin does everything. It is magical.
Mr. Talon, you look black at me.
[Mr. Talon, seated, warmed with his wine, takes many red-taped papers
from his bag and a quill from a case.
PANTALOON. A goose quill.
EGLANTINE. One of your own plucking?
PANTALOON. Often too appropriate for the signing of such documents.
EGLANTINE. This the settlement? Small house ... strip of woodland ...
rentals of farm ... two hundred a year! Is that all?
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.