The Russian Masters: Works by Dostoevsky, Chekhov, Tolstoy, Pushkin, Gogol, Turgenev and More. Максим Горький
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motto! And I have not been idle to catch them! I’ve caught so many that I want no more. Now, perhaps, another kiss, a little draught of wine, a burst of merry laughter — and it will be!
Columbine: But aren’t you afraid?
Harlequin: It would be more frightful to be born! Now I’m going back again.
Columbine: To sink into nothing!
Harlequin: But if death’s nothing, what have I to fear?
Columbine: Anyhow, I’m afraid.
Harlequin: Your bowl’s not emptied; you’re afraid not to be ready.
Columbine: But only think ——
Harlequin: It thinks for us.
Columbine: But we?
Harlequin: We’ll remember the march of the clock — the swift march of the clock! Stretch out, Columbine! Press the clusters of life! Turn them to wine! Don’t tarry for delight, so as to be sated when death comes! (Takes the lute.) And you, too, stretch out, friend Pierrot, if only you can. (Pierrot, in reply, sobs. Harlequin laughs.) No, no, not like that; you don’t understand me.
Pierrot: The lamp’s flickering.
Harlequin: And there’s no oil in the house.
Columbine: But look, it’s still burning!
Harlequin: It’s burning, Columbine, burning! (Begins to play. The strings break.)
Columbine (sorrowfully): The strings have broken.
Harlequin (laughs): My catch is sung. (A knock.) Who’s there? (Death enters. Harlequin rises to meet her. He is very gallant.) To do justice, madame, you have come just in time. We were only just talking about you. Really, how obliging you are, not to keep yourself waiting! But why these tragic gestures? Look round, madame; you are in the house of Harlequin, where one can laugh at all that’s tragic, not even excluding your gestures. (Death points at the clock with a theatrical gesture.) Enough, enough, madame. Really, if I hadn’t laughed all my laughter, I should burst of laughing in the literal sense of the word. What, you want to stop the clock? There’s plenty of time, madame. As far as I know, my hour has not yet struck. Or you’re anticipating a struggle with me? No, no; I don’t belong to the silly bourgeois boors. Honour and place to a beautiful lady! I don’t want to cross her, and then I can’t oppose her, because I’ve used up all my strength. But the traditional dance? Your dance of the good old times, when people hadn’t yet forgotten how to die, and even Death was a distraction for them. If you please! Ah, you’re surprised at the request! Yes, yes, Harlequin in our time is almost a fossil. Well, fair lady, enough obstinacy. (Music. Death dances.) Columbine, Pierrot, open your eyes, open them quickly! Look how merry we are! (Harlequin makes Columbine sit down beside him on the bed. Death places her hand on his shoulder. To Death.) Wait, my dear lady, wait. Let me take leave of the world as the world does! One more, only one more kiss, Columbine! Pierrot, where have you got to, you coward? (Rises.) Well, if you’re too lazy to light me. (Gives the lamp to Death.) Light the way, Death; there’s still a tiny drop of oil in the lamp. (Death separates him from Columbine.)
Columbine (as in a dream): My Harlequin! My beloved! (The lamp goes out. Then the moon lights up the stage. It is twelve o'clock. Columbine is kneeling at Harlequin's death-bed. Pierrot comes in on the right.)
Pierrot (to Audience) : Here’s a situation. I really don’t know what I ought to bewail first: the loss of Harlequin, the loss of Columbine, my own bitter lot or yours, dear audience, who have witnessed the performance of such an unserious author. And what did he want to say in his piece? — I don’t understand. By the way, I’m silly, cowardly Pierrot, and it’s not for me to criticise the piece in which I played an unenviable role. But your astonishment will increase still more when you know what I have been told to say in conclusion by the culprit of this — well, between ourselves — this strange mockery of the public. Shhh! Listen! “When the genius Rabelais was dying, the monks collected round his couch and tried in every way to induce him to do penance for his sins. Rabelais, in reply, only smiled, and when the moment of the end came, he said mockingly: ‘Let down the curtain; the farce is over.’ He said this and died.” Why the graceless author thought it necessary to put other people’s words into the mouth of one of the actors, I don't know — I’ve not a free hand in the matter; but being a respectable actor, I stand by him to the last and so, obeying without dispute the will of the author, I shout mockingly: Let down the curtain; the farce is over. (The curtains fall behind him.) Ladies and gentlemen, I forgot to tell you that neither your applause nor your hissing of the piece is likely to be taken seriously by the author, who preaches that nothing in life is worth taking seriously. And I suggest that if truth is on his side, then you should hardly take his play seriously, all the more as Harlequin has probably risen from his deathbed already, and, perhaps, is already tidying himself in anticipation of a call, because, say what you like, but the actors can’t be responsible for the free-thinking of the author. (Exit.)
(Curtain)
THE BEAUTIFUL DESPOT
The Last Act of a Drama
By Nicholas Evréinov
Characters
| The Master, and his Companion, Friend, Maid, Manservant, Fool-Hermaphrodite, Arab Boy and Favourite Witch. |
The Beautiful Despot
(The play takes place in the late autumn of 1904. The room luxuriously furnished in the style of a century before. The Master of the house, his Lady Companion, Manservant and Fool-Hermaphrodite with a monkey. All are dressed in antique style.)
Servant (with animation): “Tally-ho! Tally-ho! Hark! Follow, follow!” The hounds were at their last gasp. They were only a length behind him. Now they’ve got him, thought I——No! the little lord held out another ten minutes — he doubled, the ragamuffin, and doubled again, and again — at last the whip was going to turn the pack back! — Aha! just look! — I can’t describe it! — its tongue hanging out, its eyes bulging. — What a beauty, just — “On him,” we shouted. “Tally-ho! Tally-ho! There he goes, here he goes, this way, that way.” “No, no, you’ve gone enough!” Within a minute he was done for. — How his brush trailed. The dear old chap was done for, the old fellow was done.
Master: Good work, begad.
Servant: Ay, I dare swear there’s no sport in the world to beat fox-hunting, nothing!
Master: No, Egórich, give things their due. For instance, I’m extraordinarily pleased with today’s sport. Not even God knows how many brace I shot, but there were some moments that—— (Kisses the tips of his fingers.)
Companion: Who said that hunting was a cruel pastime?
Servant: Some jealous beast who can’t shoot or can’t afford a gun! (Laughs.)
Fool (in motley, screams like a monkey): Kiriki, kirikoo, kiriki.
Master (drinking): Impeaching human happiness — that’s real cruelty. Ahem ! I’ve dined well to-day. (To Servant.) My compliments to your wife; to-day’s dinner was excellent. I’m not calling her up to compliment her, from consideration for her corns. But how’s Diana?
Companion: I heard her howling.
Servant: Yes, I gave her another bath with bran and rubbed her belly with camphorated oil; but you’ll have to bleed her, as sure as life. (Maid brings in a long lit tobacco-pipe.)
Companion (beckoning at Fool with a biscuit): Chick, chick, chick, chick.
Master: Poor little doggie! However