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
[Footnote 28: Copyright, Feb. 1, 1913, in the United States
by Oliphant Down. Reprinted by special arrangement with
Gowans & Gray, Ltd., Glasgow.
Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that this play
is fully copyrighted under the existing laws of the United
States, and no one is allowed to produce this play without
first having obtained permission of Samuel French, 28 West 38
Street, New York.]
_The Maker of Dreams_ by the late Oliphant Down was first given at the
Royalty Theatre in Glasgow, November 20, 1911. The design for the
setting here reproduced was used when the play was acted in March,
1915, at The Neighborhood Playhouse in New York. The picture does not
show how touches of red here and there in the scene, and the brilliant
blue sky, visible through the quaint windows, enhanced the character
of the black and white of the walls and of the flower pots. The back
wall of the set was mounted on casters and, while Pierrette slept,
moved silently off stage, to disclose to the audience a formal garden
at the back, where a miniature Pierrot and a tiny Pierrette did a
joyous little dance, thus suggesting to the spectators Pierrette's
happy dream.
Pierrot, the hero of this and of the preceding play, has had an
interesting stage history. To understand him fully we have to go back
to the comedy of masks that had fully developed in Italy by the time
of the Renascence. This comedy was a special kind of play, the
scenario of which only was written, the dialogue being improvised by
the individual players. Each player wore a costume and a mask that
never changed, and these fixed his identity. Most of the parts had a
strong local flavor, the pedant, for example, hailing from Bologna,
the overly shrewd merchant, from Venice. Many of the characters have
become fixed types and reappear under their old names in various forms
of modern drama. Pantaloon, Harlequin, Columbine, Punch and Judy, and
Pierrot are among those who live on in modern drama. There is an
enchanting play by Granville Barker and Dion Clayton Calthrop called
_The Harlequinade_, that describes in a popular way the devious and
uncertain paths traveled by these stock characters down the ages.
Pierrot's ancestry is not so clearly Italian as the others. Pedrolino,
a mischievous, intriguing buffoon, Pagliaccio, a madcap who wore a
painted hat of white wool and a garment of white linen, whose face was
covered with flour, and who wore a white mask, have both been cited as
types that may have contributed to the figure of Pierrot, whose name
makes its first appearance in Moliere's play, _Don Juan ou le Festin
de Pierre_. Not that this dull servant of Moliere's is in any sense
the counterpart of the Pierrot of our day who is by turns languishing
or vivacious, impish or poetic, but never doltish. From the
seventeenth century, Pierrot, his costume borrowed from the Neapolitan
mask, Pulcinella, became more and more prominent on both the Italian
and the French stage. It was a certain French pantomime actor by the
name of Deburau who died a few years before the middle of the
nineteenth century, who gave Pierrot the prominence that he enjoys
to-day and who dressed the character in the guise that he most often
assumes on the modern stage. "The short woolen tunic, with its great
buttons and its narrow sleeves, that overhung the hands, soon became
an ample calico blouse with wide long sleeves like those of the
Italian Pagliaccio. He suppressed the collar, which cast an upward
shadow from the footlights on to his face, and interfered with the
play of his countenance, and instead of the white skull-cap of his
predecessor, he emphasized the pallor of his face by framing it in a
cap of black velvet."[29] The Pierrot of our fancy[30] comes to us
also through the pictures of Watteau and Pater and the designs of
Aubrey Beardsley.
[Footnote 29: Maurice Sand, _The History of the
Harlequinade_, London, 1915, Vol. I, p. 219.]
[Footnote 30: _Mon Ami Pierrot._ _Songs and Fantasies_,
compiled by Kendall Banning, Chicago, 1917. This book
presents the Pierrot of modern poetry and drama.]
A one-act farce, _The Quod Wrangle_, is the only other published play
of Oliphant Down's. Its plot, as outlined in _The London Times_ of
March 4, 1914, reminds one strongly of O. Henry's _The Cop and the
Anthem_.
[Illustration: _The Maker of Dreams_ at The Neighborhood Playhouse,
designed by Aline Bernstein.]
THE MAKER OF DREAMS
CHARACTERS
PIERROT.
PIERRETTE.
THE MANUFACTURER.
_Evening. A room in an old cottage, with walls of dark oak, lit only
by the moonlight that peers through the long, low casement-window at
the back, and the glow from the fire that is burning merrily on the
spectator's left. A cobbled street can be seen outside, and a door to
the right of the window opens directly on to it. Opposite the fire is
a kitchen dresser with cups and plates twinkling in the firelight. A
high-backed oak settle, as though afraid of the cold moonlight, has
turned its back on the window and warms its old timbers at the fire.
In the middle of the room stands a table with a red cover; there are
chairs on either side of it. On the hob, a kettle is keeping itself
warm; whilst overhead, on the hood of the chimney-piece, a small lamp
is turned very low._
_A figure flits past the window and, with a click of the latch,
PIERRETTE enters. She hangs up her cloak by the door, gives a little
shiver and runs to warm herself for a moment. Then, having turned up
the lamp, she places the kettle on the fire. Crossing the room, she
takes a tablecloth from the dresser and proceeds to lay tea, setting
out crockery for two. Once she goes to the window and, drawing aside
the common red casement-curtains, looks out, but returns to her work,
disappointed. She puts a spoonful of tea into the teapot, and another,
and a third. Something outside attracts her attention; she listens,
her face brightening. A voice is heard singing:_
"Baby, don't wait for the moon,
She is caught in a tangle of boughs;
And mellow and musical June
Is saying 'Good-night' to the cows."
[_The voice draws nearer and a conical white hat goes past the
window. PIERROT enters._]
PIERROT [_throwing his hat to PIERRETTE_]. Ugh! How cold it is. My
feet are like ice.
PIERRETTE. Here are your slippers. I put them down to warm. [_She
kneels beside him, as he sits before the fire and commences to slip
off his shoes._]
PIERROT [_singing:_]
"Baby, don't wait for the moon,
She will put out her tongue and grimace;
And mellow and musical June
Is pinning the stars in their place."
Isn't tea ready yet?
PIERRETTE. Nearly. Only waiting for the kettle to boil.
PIERROT. How cold it was in the market-place to-day! I don't believe I
sang at all well. I can't sing in the cold.
PIERRETTE. Ah, you're like the kettle. He can't sing when he's cold
either. Hurry up, Mr. Kettle, if you please.
PIERROT. I wish it were in love with the sound of its own voice.
PIERRETTE. I believe it is. Now it's singing like a bird. We'll make
the tea with the nightingale's tongue. [_She pours the boiling water
into the teapot._] Come along.
PIERROT [_looking into the fire_]. I wonder. She had beauty, she had
form, but had she soul?
PIERRETTE [_cutting bread and butter at the table_]. Come and be
cheerful, instead of grumbling there to the fire.
PIERROT. I was thinking.
PIERRETTE. Come and have tea. When you sit by the fire, thoughts only
fly up the chimney.
PIERROT. The whole world's a chimney-piece. Give people a thing as
worthless as paper, and it catches fire in them and makes a stir; but
real thought, they let it go up with the smoke.
PIERRETTE. Cheer up, Pierrot. See how thick I've spread the butter.
PIERROT. You're always cheerful.
PIERRETTE. I try to be happy.
PIERROT. Ugh! [_He has moved to the table. There is a short silence,
during which PIERROT sips his tea moodily._]
PIERRETTE. Tea all right?
PIERROT. Middling.
PIERRETTE. Only middling! I'll pour you out some fresh.
PIERROT. Oh, it's all right! How you do worry a fellow!
PIERRETTE. Heigh-ho! Shall I chain up that big black dog?
PIERROT. I say, did you see that girl to-day?
PIERRETTE. Whereabouts?
PIERROT. Standing by the horse-trough. With a fine air, and a string
of great beads.
PIERRETTE. I didn't see her.
PIERROT. I did, though. And she saw me. Watched me all the time I was
singing, and clapped her hands like anything each time. I wonder if it
is possible for a woman to have a soul as well as such beautiful
coloring.
PIERRETTE. She was made up!
PIERROT. I'm sure she was not. And how do you know? You didn't see
her.
PIERRETTE. Perhaps I _did_ see her.
PIERROT. Now, look here, Pierrette, it's no good your being jealous.
When you and I took on this show business, we arranged to be just
partners and nothing more. If I see anyone I want to marry, I shall
marry 'em. And if you see anyone who wants to marry you, _you_ can
marry 'em.
PIERRETTE. I'm not jealous! It's absurd!
PIERROT [_singing abstractedly_].
"Baby, don't wait for the moon,
She has scratched her white chin on the gorse;
And mellow and musical June
Is bringing the cuckoo remorse."
PIERRETTE. Did you see that girl after the show?
PIERROT. No. She had slipped away in the crowd. Here, I've had enough
tea. I shall go out and try to find her.
PIERRETTE. Why don't you stay in by the fire? You could help me to
darn the socks.
PIERROT. Don't try to chaff me. Darning, indeed! I hope life has got
something better in it than darning.
PIERRETTE. I doubt it. It's pretty much the same all the world over.
First we wear holes in our socks, and then we mend them. The wise ones
are those who make the best of it, and darn as well as they can.
PIERROT. I say, that gives me an idea for a song.
PIERRETTE. Out with it, then.
PIERROT. Well, I haven't exactly formed it yet. This is what flashed
through my mind as you spoke: [_He runs up on to the table, using it
as a stage._]
"Life's a ball of worsted,
Unwind it if you can,
You who oft have boasted
[_He pauses for a moment, then hurriedly, in order to gloss over the
false accenting._]
That you are a man."
Of course that's only a rough idea.
PIERRETTE. Are you going to sing it at the show?
PIERROT [_jumping down from the table_]. You're always so lukewarm. A
man of artistic ideas is as sensitively skinned as a baby.
PIERRETTE. Do stay in, Pierrot. It's so cold outside.
PIERROT. You want me to listen to you grumbling, I suppose.
PIERRETTE. Just now you said I was always cheerful.
PIERROT. There you are; girding at me again.
PIERRETTE. I'm sorry, Pierrot. But the market-place is dreadfully wet,
and your shoes are awfully thin.
PIERROT. I tell you I will not stop in. I'm going out to find that
girl. How do I know she isn't the very woman of my dreams?
PIERRETTE. Why are you always trying to picture an ideal woman?
PIERROT. Don't _you ever_ picture an ideal man?
PIERRETTE. No, I try to be practical.
PIERROT. Women are so unimaginative! They are such pathetic, motherly
things, and when they feel extra motherly they say, "I'm in love." All
that is so sordid and petty. I want a woman I can set on a pedestal,
and just look up at her and love her.
PIERRETTE [_speaking very fervently_].
"Pierrot, don't wait for the moon,
There's a heart chilling cold in her rays;
And mellow and musical June
Will only last thirty short days."
PIERROT. Oh, I should never make you understand! Well, I'm off. [_As
he goes out, he sings, sidelong, over his shoulder in a mocking tone,
"Baby, don't wait for the moon." PIERRETTE listens for a moment to his
voice dying away in the distance. Then she moves to the fire-place,
and begins to stir the fire. As she kneels there, the words of an old
recitation form on her lips. Half unconsciously she recites it again
to an audience of laughing flames and glowing, thoughtful coals._]
"There lives a maid in the big, wide world,
By the crowded town and mart,
And people sigh as they pass her by;
They call her Hungry Heart.
For there trembles that on her red rose lip
That never her tongue can say,
And her eyes are sad, and she is not glad
In the beautiful calm of day.
Deep down in the waters of pure, clear thought,
The mate of her fancy lies;
Sleeping, the night is made fair by his light
Sweet kiss on her dreaming eyes.
Though a man was made in the wells of time
Who could set her soul on fire,
Her life unwinds, and she never finds
This love of her heart's desire.
If you meet this maid of a hopeless love,
Play not a meddler's part.
Silence were best; let her keep in her breast
The dream of her hungry heart."
[_Overcome by tears, she hides her face in her hands. A slow, treble
knock comes on the door; PIERRETTE looks up wonderingly. Again the
knock sounds._]
PIERRETTE. Come in. [_The door swings slowly open, as though of its
own accord, and without, on the threshold, is seen THE MANUFACTURER,
standing full in the moonlight. He is a curious, though
kindly-looking, old man, and yet, with all his years, he does not
appear to be the least infirm. He is the sort of person that children
take to instinctively. He wears a quaintly cut, bottle-green coat,
with silver buttons and large side-pockets, which almost hide his
knee-breeches. His shoes have large buckles and red heels. He is
exceedingly unlike a prosperous manufacturer, and, but for the absence
of a violin, would be mistaken for a village fiddler. Without a word
he advances into the room, and, again of its own accord, the door
closes noiselessly behind him._]
PIERRETTE [_jumping up and moving towards him_]. Oh, I'm so sorry. I
ought to have opened the door when you knocked.
MANUFACTURER. That's all right. I'm used to opening doors. And yours
opens much more easily than some I come across. Would you believe it,
some people positively nail their doors up, and it's no good knocking.
But there, you're wondering who I am.
PIERRETTE. I was wondering if you were hungry.
MANUFACTURER. Ah, a woman's instinct. But, thank you, no. I am a small
eater; I might say a very small eater. A smile or a squeeze of the
hand keeps me going admirably.
PIERRETTE. At least you'll sit down and make yourself at home.
MANUFACTURER [_moving to the settle_]. Well, I have a habit of making
myself at home everywhere. In fact, most people think you can't make a
_home_ without _me_. May I put my feet on the fender? It's an old
habit of mine. I always do it.
PIERRETTE. They say round here:
"Without feet on the fender
Love is but slender."
MANUFACTURER. Quite right. It is the whole secret of the domestic
fireside. Pierrette, you have been crying.
PIERRETTE. I believe I have.
MANUFACTURER. Bless you, I know all about it. It's Pierrot. And so
you're in love with him, and he doesn't care a little bit about you,
eh? What a strange old world it is! And you cry your eyes out over
him.
PIERRETTE. Oh, no, I don't often cry. But to-night he seemed more
grumpy than usual, and I tried so hard to cheer him up.
MANUFACTURER. Grumpy, is he?
PIERRETTE. He doesn't mean it, though. It's the cold weather, and the
show hasn't been paying so well lately. Pierrot wants to write an
article about us for the local paper by way of an advertisement. He
thinks the editor may print it if he gives him free passes for his
family.
MANUFACTURER. Do you think Pierrot is worth your tears?
PIERRETTE. Oh, yes!
MANUFACTURER. You know, tears are not to be wasted. We only have a
certain amount of them given to us just for keeping the heart moist.
And when we've used them all up and haven't any more, the heart dries
up, too.
PIERRETTE. Pierrot is a splendid fellow. You don't know him as well as
I do. It's true he's always discontented, but it's only because he's
not in love with anyone. You know, love does make a tremendous
difference in a man.
MANUFACTURER. That's true enough. And has it made a difference in you?
PIERRETTE. Oh, yes! I put Pierrot's slippers down to warm, and I make
tea for him, and all the time I'm happy because I'm doing something
for him. If I weren't in love, I should find it a drudgery.
MANUFACTURER. Are you sure it's real love?
PIERRETTE. Why, yes!
MANUFACTURER. Every time you think of Pierrot, do you hear the patter
of little bare feet? And every time he speaks, do you feel little
chubby hands on your breast and face?
PIERRETTE [_fervently_]. Yes! Oh, yes! That's just it!
MANUFACTURER. You've got it right enough. But why is it that Pierrot
can wake up all this poetry in you?
PIERRETTE. Because--oh, because he's just Pierrot.
MANUFACTURER. "Because he's just Pierrot." The same old reason.
PIERRETTE. Of course, he is a bit dreamy. But that's his soul. I am
sure he could do great things if he tried. And have you noticed his
smile? Isn't it lovely! Sometimes, when he's not looking, I want ever
so much to try it on, just to see how I should look in it.
[_Pensively._] But I wish he'd smile at me a little more often,
instead of at others.
MANUFACTURER. Ho! So he smiles at others, does he?
PIERRETTE. Hardly a day goes by but there's some fine lady at the
show. There was one there to-day, a tall girl with red cheeks. He is
gone to look for her now. And it is not their faults. The poor things
can't help being in love with him. [_Proudly._] I believe everyone is
in love with Pierrot.
MANUFACTURER. But supposing one of these fine ladies were to marry
him?
PIERRETTE. Oh, they'd never do that. A fine lady would never marry a
poor singer. If Pierrot were to get married, I think I should just ...
fade away.... Oh, but I don't know why I talk to you like this. I feel
as if I had known you for a long, long time. [_THE MANUFACTURER rises
from the settle and moves across to PIERRETTE, who is now folding up
the white table-cloth._]
MANUFACTURER [_very slowly_]. Perhaps you _have_ known me for a long,
long time. [_His tone is so kindly and impressive that PIERRETTE
forgets the table-cloth and looks up at him. For a moment or two he
smiles back at her as she gazes, spellbound; then he turns away to the
fire again, with the little chuckle that is never far from his lips._]
PIERRETTE [_taking a small bow from his side-pocket_]. Oh, look at
this.
MANUFACTURER [_in mock alarm_]. Oh, oh, I didn't mean you to see that.
I'd forgotten it was sticking out of my pocket. I used to do a lot of
archery at one time. I don't get much chance now. [_He takes it and
puts it back in his pocket._]
PIERROT [_singing in the distance_].
"Baby, don't wait for the moon,
She is drawing the sea in her net;
And mellow and musical June
Is teaching the rose to forget."
MANUFACTURER [_in a whisper as the voice draws nearer_]. Who is that?
PIERRETTE. Pierrot. [_Again the conical white hat flashes past the
window and PIERROT enters._]
PIERROT. I can't find her anywhere. [_Seeing THE MANUFACTURER._]
Hullo! Who are you?
MANUFACTURER. I am a stranger to you, but Pierrette knew me in a
moment.
PIERROT. An old flame perhaps?
MANUFACTURER. True, I am an old flame. I've lighted up the world for a
considerable time. Yet when you say "old," there are many people who
think I'm wonderfully well preserved for my age. How long do you think
I've been trotting about?
PIERROT [_testily, measuring a length with his hands_]. Oh, about that
long.
MANUFACTURER. I suppose being funny all day _does_ get on your nerves.
PIERRETTE. Pierrot, you needn't be rude.
MANUFACTURER [_anxious to be alone with PIERROT_]. Pierrette, have you
got supper in?
PIERRETTE. Oh, I must fly! The shops will all be shut. Will you be
here when I come back?
MANUFACTURER [_bustling her out_]. I can't promise, but I'll try, I'll
try. [_PIERRETTE goes out. There is a silence, during which THE
MANUFACTURER regards PIERROT with amusement._]
MANUFACTURER. Well, friend Pierrot, so business is not very brisk.
PIERROT. Brisk! If laughter meant business, it would be brisk enough,
but there's no money. However, I've done one good piece of work
to-day. I've arranged with the editor to put an article in the paper.
That will fetch 'em. [_Singing_]:
"Please come one day and see our house that's down among the trees,
But do not come at four o'clock for then we count the bees,
And bath the tadpoles and the frogs, who splash the clouds with gold,
And watch the new-cut cucum_bers_ perspiring with the cold."
That's a song I'm writing.
MANUFACTURER. Pierrot, if you had all the money in the world you
wouldn't be happy.
PIERROT. Wouldn't I? Give me all the money in the world and I'll risk
it. To start with, I'd build schools to educate the people up to
high-class things.
MANUFACTURER. You dream of fame and wealth and empty ideals, and you
miss all the best things there are. You are discontented. Why? Because
you don't know how to be happy.
PIERROT [_reciting_]:
"Life's a running brooklet,
Catch the fishes there,
You who wrote a booklet
On a woman's hair."
[_Explaining._] That's another song I'm writing. It's the second
verse. Things come to me all of a sudden like that. I must run out a
third verse, just to wind it up.
MANUFACTURER. Why don't you write a song without any end, one that
goes on for ever?
PIERROT. I say, that's rather silly, isn't it?
MANUFACTURER. It all depends. For a song of that sort the singer must
be always happy.
PIERROT. That wants a bit of doing in my line.
MANUFACTURER. Shall you and I transact a little business?
PIERROT. By all means. What seats would you like? There are the front
rows covered in velvet, one shilling; wooden benches behind, sixpence;
and, right at the back, the twopenny part. But, of course, you'll have
shilling ones. How many shall we say?
MANUFACTURER. You don't know who I am.
PIERROT. That makes no difference. All are welcome, and we thank you
for your courteous attention.
MANUFACTURER. Pierrot, I am a maker of dreams.
PIERROT. A what?
MANUFACTURER. I make all the dreams that float about this musty world.
PIERROT. I say, you'd better have a rest for a bit. I expect you're a
trifle done up.
MANUFACTURER. Pierrot, Pierrot, your superior mind can't tumble to my
calling. A child or one of the "people" would in a moment. I am a
maker of dreams, little things that glide about into people's hearts
and make them glad. Haven't you often wondered where the swallows go
to in the autumn? They come to my workshop, and tell me who wants a
dream, and what happened to the dreams they took with them in the
spring.
PIERROT. Oh, I say, you can't expect me to believe that.
MANUFACTURER. When flowers fade, have you never wondered where their
colors go to, or what becomes of all the butterflies in the winter?
There isn't much winter about my workshop.
PIERROT. I had never thought of it before.
MANUFACTURER. It's a kind of lost property office, where every
beautiful thing that the world has neglected finds its way. And there
I make my celebrated dream, the dream that is called "love."
PIERROT. Ho! ho! Now we're talking.
MANUFACTURER. You don't believe in it?
PIERROT. Yes, in a way. But it doesn't last. It doesn't last. If there
is form, there isn't soul, and, if there is soul, there isn't form.
Oh, I've tried hard enough to believe it, but, after the first wash,
the colors run.
MANUFACTURER. You only got hold of a substitute. Wait until you see
the genuine article.
PIERROT. But how is one to tell it?
MANUFACTURER. There are heaps of signs. As soon as you get the real
thing, your shoulder-blades begin to tingle. That's love's wings
sprouting. And, next, you want to soar up among the stars and sit on
the roof of heaven and sing to the moon. Of course, that's because I
put such a lot of the moon into my dreams. I break bits off until it's
nearly all gone, and then I let it grow big again. It grows very
quickly, as I dare say you've noticed. After a fortnight it is ready
for use once more.
PIERROT. This is most awfully fascinating. And do the swallows bring
all the dreams?
MANUFACTURER. Not always; I have other messengers. Every night when
the big clock strikes twelve, a day slips down from the calendar, and
runs away to my workshop in the Land of Long Ago. I give him a touch
of scarlet and a gleam of gold, and say, "Go back, little Yesterday,
and be a memory in the world." But my best dreams I keep for to-day. I
buy babies, and fit them up with a dream, and then send them complete
and carriage paid ... in the usual manner.