+Characters+: +Jean Antoine Watteau+ _in his last hour, a_
+Sister+, _and a_ +Boy+.
_The stage is divided from right to left by a screen which,
when only the forefront is illuminated, represents the wall
of a room. When light is thrown on the back scene it serves
as a misty veil that lends an effect of illusion to the
pictures there presented. These pictures, groupings from the
well-known canvases of Watteau, are supposed to be conjured up
in the fancy of the dying artist, the spectator sharing his
super-normal vision. The_ +Sister+ _and the_ +Boy+, _however,
who are ministering to him, betray no consciousness whatever
that the room has ceased to be bounded by a wall._
_The curtains, parting, disclose a simply furnished room. At
one side, toward the front, on a couch lies_ +Watteau+, _the_
+Sister+ _and the_ +Boy+ _in attendance on him._
+Watteau.+
[_Rousing himself._]
Sister, brush and palette bring me.
Play, Jeannot, on your guitar.
While I paint, some ballad sing me.
Faring on a journey far,
Sieur Watteau, Academician,
For one sitter’s portrait calls
On remembrance, art-magician,
Ere the final darkness falls.
[_The_ +Sister+ _having complied with his request, he makes an
effort to work._]
+The Boy.+
[_Sings to his guitar._]
_Days of Liesse! Days of Liesse!
Season of wreathèd lovers, song, and spring!
Come, warm me with your old-time tenderness,
Before my soul takes wing!_
[_The wall at the back of the room seems to dissolve, and, as if
in a dream, appear phantasmagorial groups of Watteau Cavaliers
and Ladies, in a garden presided over by a statue of Venus.
Exclaiming, the artist moves, as if to advance toward the
vision, then sinking back, waves it away._]
+Watteau.+
Gallants, dames, of courtly fashion,
Butterflies of ballet corps,
Airy forms of painted passion,
Pass! Binds me your spell no more!
[_The vision fades._]
+The Boy.+
[_Sings to his guitar._]
_Enchanted Isle! Enchanted Isle!
Who has not known your lure when youth is fair?
But, of all barques that seek ye this long while,
What one has anchored there!_
+Watteau.+
For Cythera not embarking--
Ah, how oft I’ve made the start!--
Back to Valenciennes I’m harking,
Home that holds my Flemish heart!
In a simple tiler’s cottage
Fronting on the market-square,
Spinning, mending, making pottage,
Praying, bides my mother there!
[_He paints a little. The_ +Sister+ _moves softly about the room,
ministering to his comfort, while the_ +Boy+ _plays a few
measures. Then, with a reminiscent smile_, +Watteau+ _pauses in
his work and speaks again._]
Oh, those merry Saturnalia,
In the reign of St. Pansard,
Clad in Carnival regalia,
Then at Easter, dying hard!
And, neath Abbey walls monastic,
Gilles, Cassandra, gay Margot,
Mezzetin of trick fantastic--
These are the old friends I know!
+The Boy.+
[_Sings to his guitar._]
_Oh, Valenciennes! Oh, Valenciennes!
Homing, my heart seeks yours at set of sun
To join the buoyant women, stalwart men,
Who dance, their day’s work done!_
[_Again the wall dissolves, and a vision appears, this time of
Flemish peasants dancing, as in the picture La Vraie Gaieté.
Then follow Gilles, and his companions of the Strolling Italian
Comedians; Cassandra, Margot, Mezzetin, Pantaloon. Extending
his arms toward these, the artist exclaims with joy. When
the vision fades he sinks back on his couch with a sigh of
satisfaction. The_ +Sister+, _who has been sitting quietly
watching him, rises._]
+Watteau.+
[_Looks from the_ +Sister+ _to a crucifix on the side-wall, then
to her again._]
Symbol of the Crucifixion,
Sister, now I fain would kiss!
[_The_ +Sister+ _brings him the crucifix, but in the act of
taking it, the artist pauses, his eye arrested by the crudity
of its workmanship, and he pushes it away with a gesture of
repulsion._]
Ah, there lies no benediction
In such travesty as this!
[_With a gentle smile, as of one humoring a child, the_ +Sister+
_replaces the sacred symbol. The_ +Boy+, _meantime, plays a
few soft, desultory measures. Picking up his brush, with it
the artist outlines a cross in the air, then again essays to
paint. After a futile stroke or so, however, his nerveless hand
drops to his side. Then, gathering his faculties for a supreme
effort, he speaks, slowly, but distinctly._]
Sieur Watteau, at thirty-seven,
Decorate by royal grace,
Leaves his master-work to Heaven,
Just--my dear--old--mother’s--face!
[_The brush drops from his hand as his head sinks forward, then
back on the pillow. The watching_ +Sister+ _makes the sign of
the cross._]
+The Boy.+
[_Sings to his guitar._]
_In Valenciennes, in Valenciennes
Players no more frequent the market-place,
And I to Heaven now must turn, as then
To see my mother’s face!_
[_Slowly, noiselessly, the curtains are drawn._]