Five Russian plays with one from the Ukrainian/A Merry Death, a Harlequonade, by Nicholas Evréinov

by Anton Chekhov, Nikolai Evreinov, Denis Fonvizin, Lesya Ukrainka

A Merry Death

A Harlequinade

By Nicholas Evréinov

Characters

Harlequin
Pierrot

Columbine
Doctor

Death

Scene: Harlequin’s House

A Merry Death

(Harlequin is sleeping. Pierrot clumsily chases the flies from his face, then turns to the Audience.)

Pierrot: Shhh! Quiet! Take your seats quietly and try to talk and turn in your seats less. Even if an ingenuous friend has dragged you in and yourselves are too serious to be interested in a harlequinade, it’s quite superfluous to hint of it to the public, which in the main has no affair with your personal tastes. Besides, Harlequin’s asleep—you see him! Shh! I’ll explain it all to you afterwards. But don’t wake him up, please! And when Columbine comes on, don’t applaud her like mad, just in order to show your neighbours that you know her, had a little intrigue with her, and can appreciate certain talents. I beg and entreat you! It’s no joke. Harlequin’s terribly ill! Just think, he’s been raving about my Columbine, although, of course, there’s nothing in common between him and my Columbine; there isn’t, because Columbine’s my wife, and there’s an end of it! I strongly suspect that Harlequin won’t live till to-morrow; a fortuneteller told him that the day he sleeps longer than he revels he will die exactly at midnight. Look, it’s just eight o’clock of the evening, and he’s still asleep! I’ll tell you even more—I know, perhaps for sure, that Harlequin will soon die. But what decent actor will tell the audience the end of the play before it begins? I’m not one of those who give away the management, and I thoroughly understand that the audience goes to the theatre not for any idea in the piece, or masterly dialogue, but simply to know how the play ends, and all the same I can't help sighing and weeping in my long sleeves and saying (sobs): “Poor, poor Harlequin, who ever could have thought it?” I used to like him very much! He was my first friend; though, by the way, this never prevented me from envying him a little, because, as everybody knows, if I’m Pierrot, it’s only because I’m not a successful Harlequin. However, I’m not as simple as my clothes, and, I assure you, I’ve managed already to go for a doctor, although it’s useless, because Harlequin can die quite all right without a doctor; but—nice people always do it, and I’m not inferior to them; for, if I didn’t behave like everybody else, I should be a bold, merry Harlequin, for whom there are no laws; but I—I’m only silly, cowardly Pierrot, whose character, by the way, will be quite clear to you in the further course of the drama, if only you stop till the end of the performance and don’t run away now from my chatter. So I’ll stop it, informing you only of the following plan which came into my head entirely without outside influence: if Harlequin is fated to die exactly at midnight by this clock, then won’t it be a comradely service on my part to put back the hands, even for—well, only two hours? I always liked taking people in; but when it’s a matter of taking in death and Harlequin at the same time, and, as well, for the harm of the first and the good of the second, I don’t think you can call this plan anything but a genius’s. Well, to work! The performance begins! (Climbs on a stool and, stretching over the bed on which Harlequin is sleeping, puts the clock back two hours.) Poor, poor Harle—— (Falls down on the floor.) Poor Pierrot! (Rubs his back. Harlequin, waking, smiles, pulls Pierrot towards him by the chin, and tenderly kisses him.)

Pierrot (naïvely): I seem to have waked you.

Harlequin: Why didn’t you do it earlier?

Pierrot : What for?

Harlequin: My hours are numbered.

Pierrot : Rubbish!

Harlequin: I want to live them.

Pierrot : And you will.

Harlequin: You nearly let me sleep them away.

Pierrot : I thought ——

Harlequin: What’s the time?

Pierrot : Six.

Harlequin: Only.

Pierrot : Yes. How do you feel?

Harlequin: Dying.

Pierrot : You’re frightening me. (Weeps.)

Harlequin: Stop! Why, I’m alive! What have you done? Isn’t my clock wrong?

Pierrot : I went for a doctor. Lie down quietly. I must take your temperature.

Harlequin: For a doctor? (Giggles.) Will, what of it, if he cures me ——

Pierrot : Lift up your arm. That’s the way. (Applies a thermometer.) Is that someone coming? (The thermometer begins to burn.)

Harlequin: It shows the exact temperature.

(Pierrot takes away the thermometer and puts out the flame. Harlequin jumps up and circles about snapping his fingers.) Haha! Harlequin’s not dead yet!

Pierrot: Only a thermometer spoiled.

Harlequin: Yes, I’ve not long to live; but (taking down a lute) look, how many strings are broken and the rest are frayed! But does that stop me playing the introduction to a serenade? (Plays. Steps are heard to the left)

Pierrot: D’you hear? The doctor! Stop playing and lie down quickly. It’s he. I can tell people at once by their step. That could only be someone hurrying to help a friend.

Harlequin (stops playing and lies down): To get money. (A knock.)

Pierrot: Come in!

Doctor (in huge spectacles, bald, with a big red nose and a syringe in a bag, comes in, stops, and sings to the audience):

You’ve only got to call me here,
And at once I'm near, at once I’m near,
At once I’m off to the invalid
To care for him and for his need.
My medicines I vary at
The rich man’s house and proletariat;
But there’s no need to be obscure,
I only care, but do not cure.

And grind the poor I never did,
O God forbid, O God forbid!
For wealth from him who’d scrape any?
You take his only ha’penny.
fly medicines I vary at
The rich man’s house and proletariat;
But there’s no need to be obscure,
I only care but do not cure.

Good-day, my dear Harlequin. What’s the matter with you?

Harlequin: That’s for you to judge.

Doctor: You’re quite right. (In Pierrot's ear.) There’s never any need to contradict a patient. (To Harlequin.) Temperature been taken?

Pierrot (shaking his hand): Don’t inquire!

Doctor: How do you feel?

Harlequin: An attack.

Doctor: Of coughing?

Harlequin: Of laughing.

Doctor: What are you laughing at?

Harlequin: You! (Bursts with laughter.)

Doctor (to Pierrot): He doesn’t believe in medicine?

Pierrot: No, apparently only in you.

Doctor: What a curious invalid! Your pulse, please. Oho, I can't count quickly enough! Show your tongue.

Harlequin: To whom?

Doctor: To me!

Harlequin: Oh, to you? Delighted! (Shows his tongue.)

Doctor: Thank you.

Harlequin: Please. (Shows his tongue again.)

Doctor: Enough, enough!

Harlequin: Oh, that's quite all right! (Shows it again.)

Doctor: I’ve seen it already.

Harlequin: Just as you like. (Puts in his tongue.)

Doctor: I’ve got to listen to you.

Harlequin: What shall I talk about?

Doctor: No, I say: I’ve got to listen to you.

Harlequin: Well, and I ask you, what about?

Doctor: You don’t understand me.

Harlequin: You? No, no, no, never! People like me can see right through you; but people like you, I’ll eat my hat, can never understand people like me!

Doctor: He’s raving. Very well! Now, allow me to lay my head upon your heart! It’s necessary in order to ——

Harlequin: But your wife isn’t jealous?

Doctor: He’s got a strong fever. If my ears aren’t burned, it’ll be a piece of luck. Yes, yes, you’re very ill; but let’s hope you’ll soon be well. (To Pierrot.) There’s no hope; the machine is spoiled. (To Harlequin.) You’ll live a long time yet. (To Pierrot.) He'll die very soon. (To Harlequin.) You did very well to send for me. (To Pierrot.) You’d better have sent for a coffin-maker. (To Harlequin.) You’ve a healthy system. (To Pierrot.) And that won’t help him. (To Harlequin.) You’ve only got to be cured. (To Pierrot.) And that’s no use.

Harlequin: What do you advise me?

Doctor: You must go to bed early. No excitements. Drink absolutely nothing. Don’t eat anything sharp, salt, fat, spiced, bitter, milky, over-cold, over-hot, very, very sweet, or very, very filling. Quiet habits, mustn’t get roused. Always mind draughts. Keep quite away from frivolity.

Harlequin: Very well; but is a life like that worth living?

Doctor: That’s your affair.

Harlequin: What illness have I got?

Doctor: Old age.

Harlequin: Why, I could be your son!

Doctor: You’re too impudent for that. Good-bye. (To Pierrot.) And who pays for the visit ? (Pierrot nods towards Harlequin.)

Doctor (again to Harlequin): Good-bye.

Harlequin: Good-bye. (Doctor goes out undecidedly and stops.) Have you forgotten anything?

Doctor: Have you forgotten anything?

Harlequin: No, nothing; I thoroughly remember all your instructions. Don’t be uneasy.

Doctor: No, no; I’m not uneasy about that.

Harlequin: Then about what?

Doctor: H’m. Speaking between ourselves, you’ve forgotten to pay me for my visit.

Harlequin: Impossible! How curious!

Doctor: But please don’t be angry with me.

Harlequin: Good heavens, no!

Doctor: Then good-bye.

Harlequin (shaking his hand feelingly): Good-bye, doctor, good-bye.

Doctor: H’m. You’re just as forgetful again.

Harlequin: Yes, yes. There’s a coincidence! You’re quite right. It would be impudent of me to maintain the opposite.

Doctor: Well, there you are; I’m reminding you.

Harlequin: I’m heartily grateful.

Doctor: There’s no need for gratitude.

Harlequin: No! Good heavens!

Doctor: And so—my fee?

Harlequin: You’ll get it when I get well, when you’ve cured me.

Doctor: Yes; but I ought to tell you that I reckon to cure all illnesses except the incurable; but yours ——

Harlequin: Well, then, when an improvement comes, when your advice begins to work. But then, who knows? Perhaps you lied. Why should I pay then?

Doctor: In that case I must inform you that—that, judging from the condition of your system, you won’t live even till to-morrow.

Harlequin (jumping out of bed) : What! In that case, why the devil should I pay?

Doctor: But when you die, who’ll pay me?

Harlequin: But for what, let me ask you?

Doctor: How, for what?

Harlequin: If I actually die to-day, then what’s the use of your art that can’t save me from death? And if I survive, then again it’s no use if it knows less than an ignorant fortune-teller.

Doctor: I didn’t come here to talk philosophy.

Harlequin: I know why you came.

Doctor: No insinuations, if you please.

Harlequin: He calls that insinuations. (Pulling out a purse from under his pillow.) Here’s what you came for. (Goes to the door and holds out the money.)

Doctor (reaching out) : Thank you. (Harlequin laughs, and runs out at one side and in at the other, the Doctor after him. He does this three times, and then gives the Doctor the money.)

Harlequin: What do you say to my playfulness?

Doctor: You know, sir—here’s the best of luck in the other world—it’s the first time I’ve seen a dying man like you. What’s that noise you’re making?

Harlequin: That’s my heart beating. (Noise of a steam-engine.)

Doctor: And that?

Harlequin: My breathing.

Doctor: And you're still on your legs?

Harlequin: Oh, yes! And I’ve kept fairly merry, so as to meet boldly the death I desire.

Doctor: Why do you desire it?

Harlequin: Oh, it's just coming at the right time! The man that lives wisely always desires his death.

Doctor: You’re talking in riddles.

Harlequin: Yes, for people like you. (Laughs.)

Doctor: How do you know?

Harlequin: If you like, I’ll tell you how you’ll die.

Doctor: Interesting.

Harlequin (lies on bed and shivers with all his body, then groans): Oh! Ah! Ugh! I’m still so young. I haven’t been able to live yet as I ought. Why have I been so abstinent all my life? I’ve still got all sorts of things I want to do. Turn me to the window. I’m not tired yet of looking at the world. Help! I’ve not been able to do half I wanted. I was never in a hurry to live because I always forgot about death. Help, help! I haven’t been able to enjoy myself yet; I’ve always kept my health, my strength, and my money for the morrow. I filled it with beautiful hopes, and it rolled on like a snowball, growing bigger and bigger. Has that morrow rolled for ever beyond the bounds of the possible? It has rolled down the slope of my mortal wisdom. Oh! Ah! Ugh! (Twists for the last time, extends, and dies. The Doctor weeps. Harlequin, with a laugh, gets up and applauds himself.) No! Not so dies Harlequin!

Doctor (weeping): What must I do?

Harlequin (holds out his hand): For the advice, please. I take in advance.

Doctor: How much?

Harlequin: As much as you.

Doctor (gives back his fee): Well?

Harlequin (with importance): Go and live. Nothing else.

Doctor: What does that mean?

Harlequin: Well, if you don’t understand, you’re incurable. I tell you, go and live, but live, not like an immortal, but like a man that may die to-morrow.

Doctor (shakes his head doubtfully): H’m. I’ll try it. (Wipes his eyes.) Good-bye, Mr. Harlequin.

Harlequin: Good-bye, Mr. Doctor. (Exit Doctor, finger on brow.) Well, what have you got to say of it, Pierrot?

Pierrot: Nothing good. (It grows dark.)

Harlequin: The old ape imagined I don’t feel death coming. As if a man, sleeping longer than he revels, could still have doubts about the approach of death. But what’s the time? (The clock shows eight.) Hasn’t the clock stopped? It always went in step with me, but now ——

Pierrot: You’re too nervous.

Harlequin: We can’t all be like you.

Pierrot: What do you mean?

Harlequin: You’ll soon see. Help me to lay the table for supper.

Pierrot (going to the clipboard): With great pleasure.

Harlequin: We must lay for three.

Pierrot: Three?

Harlequin: Yes.

Pierrot: Whom’s the third for?

Harlequin: For Death.

Pierrot: She’ll sit down with us?

Harlequin: If you’re not afraid of her.

Pierrot: Two glasses are enough; I won’t have supper with you.

Harlequin: Come, come! I was joking. Death will sup on me. That’s sufficient for her. But, all the same, lay for three. (Lights the lamp.)

Pierrot: But whom’s the third for ?

Columbine’s voice (sings):

I from my husband unsuspected
Steal to another ’neath the moon;
When desire’s interdicted,
Doubly ’tis desired soon.
Ah, my heart is trembling,
Fainting, beating slow—
If my spouse should see me,
Should hearken, and should know.

Pierrot: What’s that? Columbine’s voice! My wife’s voice!

Harlequin: Now you know whom the third place is for.

Pierrot (tragically): A-ah! Traitor! A-ah! Demon! This is your friendship!

Harlequin: Be calm. Why, nothing’s happened yet!

Pierrot: It only wants that!

Harlequin: And if I were to say that it doesn’t even want that?

Pierrot: And you dare pretend that you love me!

Harlequin: I love you both. But you want it to be only you, and so you’re jealous.

Pierrot: You know very well how, of whom, and why I’m jealous.

Harlequin: Be sensible. If you love me and love Columbine, you ought to be happy for both our sakes. Besides, you know we both love you. So what is there to be sad about? Lay a third place.

Pierrot: No, I’m not so simple. Nice people don’t behave like that, and there’s nothing else left for me than to revenge myself on you.

Harlequin: In what way?

Pierrot: By death.

Harlequin: But it’ll come soon anyhow—my hours are numbered. Who will prevent you afterwards from telling everybody that it was the work of your hands?

Pierrot: Suppose ——

Harlequin: Come, what is there to talk about! Lay a third place.

Pierrot (considering): Yes, but ——

Harlequin: Come, come. Time’s precious. (Pierrot fetches the plates and drops them.) Butterfingers! You were bound to smash ’em.

Pierrot (pathetically) : It’s not for you to reproach me! You’ve destroyed my happiness.

Harlequin (laying the third place): No phrases, please! You’ve been cold with Columbine for a long time, and you’re only jealous because it’s good manners. But, shh!

Columbine’s voice:

Columbine has donned her mask
And is clad in motley gear, O,
Wants to see her Harlequin
But’s afraid of meeting Pierrot.
Ah, her heart is trembling,
Fainting, beating slow—
If her spouse should see her,
Should hearken, and should know.

Harlequin: I’m going to meet Columbine; you look after the lamp. (Exit.)

Pierrot: H’m. Look after the lamp! (Suddenly strikes his forehead.) Wouldn’t it be better to look after the clock? Well, if Harlequin’s death ought to be the work of my hands, very well! Ladies and gentlemen, you are my witnesses! I don’t leave that sort of things unpunished—I’ll put the hands on two hours. (Does so.) Ah! Harlequin, evidently no one can escape his fate. Now I’m quite calm: I’m revenged. Interesting to see how she’ll look at me. This way, please, Madame Traitress.

Harlequin (off): Don’t be afraid, Columbine! Go in fearlessly. I’ve persuaded him, and, word of honour, he’s consented.

Columbine (enters): Consented?! Here’s a fine thing! Consented! What, you little beast, that’s all you think of your wife! You don’t care if she betrays you? You don’t care? Answer! (Beats Pierrot.)

Pierrot (agonised): But listen, Columbine.

Columbine: What? I must listen to you? Listen to the worst little beast of a husband of all little beasts of husbands? ——

Pierrot: But, Columbine.

Columbine: Blockhead!

Pierrot: You don’t let me utter a word.

Columbine (beats him): You’ve got no excuse! And I, poor thing, married a little beast like you! Gave you all the best there was in me! And he can’t even stand up for my conjugal honour! Take that, and that, and that, you good-for-nothing!

Pierrot: But that’s too much! Harlequin, protect me.

Harlequin: This is your own business.

Pierrot: Yes, but, dear old chap ——

Harlequin: I haven’t been brought up to interfere in other people’s private matters.

Columbine (to Pierrot): There, that’s how you love me! That’s how jealous you are of me! Where are your vows, you pagan?

Pierrot (coming to himself): Oh, to Hell with this, I never heard of such a thing! Why, you impudent woman, you came here yourself to a rendezvous and yet you dare say ——

Columbine: That’s enough! Be quiet! I know the little ways of rogues like you: when you’re found out you start to find fault with the innocent, so as to get out of the difficulty. But you don’t deceive me, you good-for-nothing.

Harlequin (interposing): Friends, don’t let’s waste precious time! When supper’s waiting, is it worth while spoiling one's appetite?

Columbine and Pierrot: But it is irritating!

Harlequin: I don’t like to see quarrels starting.

Columbine and Pierrot: It’s not my fault.

Harlequin: Better make friends!

Columbine and Pierrot: Not for anything.

Harlequin: What obstinacy!

Columbine and Pierrot: I’ve been wounded in my finest feelings.

Harlequin: Come, enough.

Columbineand Pierrot: No.

Columbine: First he ought to be punished.

Harlequin: In what way?

Columbine: Kiss me, Harlequin! Dear, sweet Harlequin.

Harlequin: Not to offend you with a refusal—(kisses her). I was always an obliging cavalier. (Kisses her.) Besides that, I’ve got a tender heart. (Kisses her.) Even children know it. (Kisses her.) And finally, as host—(kisses her)—I ought to be polite to my guests—(kisses her)—especially when it concerns—(kisses her)—the fair sex. (Kisses her.)

Pierrot: Wretches! They don’t suspect that I’m already revenged and so can be absolutely calm.

Columbine (to Harlequin): Kiss me more warmly, more strongly, more painfully, almost biting me, without losing breath. (Is kissed as she desires.)

Pierrot: They imagine they’re mortally provoking me.

Columbine (to Harlequin): Once more! Once more! (To Pierrot.) Oh! you unfeeling log!

Pierrot: Please do what you like. (To Audience.) My conscience is clean; I have vindicated my honour and have nothing to worry about.

Columbine (to Harlequin): Kiss my eyes, my forehead, my cheeks, my chin, my temples. (Harlequin does not wait to be asked a second time.)

Pierrot (to Audience): Gentlemen, you are witnesses that I’ve taken my revenge.

Columbine (to Harlequin): Kiss my neck where the hair ends and where a sweet shivering comes from your kisses.

Pierrot: I don’t care. Let them do as they want. I have fulfilled the duty of an affronted husband and never felt better in my life.

Columbine (stamping at Pierrot): There, you brute! Is all this nothing to you?

Pierrot (to Audience): I’m wearing them out with my nonchalance.

Columbine (to Harlequin): Well, shall we celebrate our Dance of Love, in spite of him.

Harlequin: I don’t dare refuse you, but ——

Columbine: What “but”?

Harlequin: But if Pierrot isn’t such a lover of dancing as to forget everything in the world!

Pierrot: Please, don’t mind me? (To Audience.) I’m revenged for everything in advance and needn’t be disturbed, whatever happens.

Harlequin (giving him the lute): Perhaps you’ll accompany us?

Columbine: Of course! Is he to do nothing?

Pierrot: With the greatest pleasure, if it helps you. (To Audience.) I hope you understand what a matter of indifference this is to a husband who can vindicate his wounded honour.

Columbine: Play!

Pierrot (to Audience): Lord, how easy you are, when you’re revenged, and nobody has any right to laugh at you. (Plays vigorously. Dance. Suddenly Harlequin falls in a faint on the bed. Pierrot stops playing.)

Columbine: What’s happened to you? What’s the matter?

Harlequin (holding his heart): No—it’s nothing, a trifle. (His heart beats like a sledge-hammer, and he breathes like an engine.)

Columbine: How furiously your heart’s beating! What terrible breathing!

Pierrot (to Audience, joyfully): Harlequin’s giving in. Harlequin’s weakening. Rejoice with me, poor husbands—you whose wives are in danger!

Columbine (to Harlequin): Nothing like this has ever happened to you before.

Pierrot (to Audience): By the way, don’t be angry with me, because, after all, Harlequin's my friend, and there’s an end of it. I’m not going to quarrel with him, indeed, for a harlot! And if he’s more to Columbine’s taste than I, he’s not to blame, but Columbine, for having such bad taste. By the way, I said this from envy. (Reflects.)

Harlequin (stands up and smiles, and kisses Columbine): Come, did I frighten you? Well, forgive me. (Looks at the clock, which is nearing twelve.) Soon you’ll know the real reason.

Columbine: What’s the matter?

Harlequin: Let’s sit down to supper. The dance woke up my appetite, and I feel magnificent. (They sit down and eat and drink.)

Columbine: What are you hiding from me?

Harlequin: Come, drink, Columbine, drink! When there’s good wine on the table, there’s no need to worry about anything. (Kisses her.)

Pierrot (to Audience): O Lord, I’m undergoing incredible pangs of conscience. To think only of the harm I’ve caused Harlequin! And what for? What for? I can’t swallow a thing, and I don’t know how to look at Harlequin! I’d willingly confess my wicked crime to him now! But alas! I can’t do it, because what would my revenge come to then? And I can’t go without revenging myself. I’m a deceived husband, and ought to revenge myself, because all nice people do. Oh, how unhappy I am, and how I want to cry! (Threatens the audience with his fist.) Bad, wicked people, it’s you thought out such silly rules! It’s because of you I’ve got to take the life of my best friend! (Turns his back on the public.)

Harlequin (to Columbine): Why were you late to-day?

Columbine: I was detained by the Doctor—I met him quite near here. He was dancing and limping and drunk and accosting all the girls.

Harlequin: Well?

Columbine: He prayed me to make him happy. He assured me that he was very strong and had been very handsome thirty years ago. While I was showing him that I wasn’t a historian to be captivated by antiquity, time passed and I was late.

Harlequin (to Audience): Poor Doctor! Why didn’t he come to me earlier for advice?

Columbine: I was very sorry for him.

Harlequin (to Audience): Your elbow’s near and yet you can’t bite it!

Columbine: He was weeping and crying: “Why the devil did I preserve my strength?” And I answered him: “I have respect for your wrinkles, but not passion.”

Harlequin: But you know, Columbine, he is younger than I, though twice as old in years.

Columbine: I don’t understand you.

Harlequin: Because you haven’t meditated on real old age. (Tapping Pierrot on shoulder.) But why aren’t you drinking or eating and taking part in our conversation ?

Columbine: He wants to depress us, but he shan’t, the good-for-nothing!

Pierrot (weeping): You don’t understand, poor thing, that Harlequin’s dying.

Columbine: Dying? You horrid thing! Or have you put poison in our glasses? No, no (contemptuously); men like you aren’t capable of that.

Pierrot (all in tears): Poor Harlequin, your minutes are numbered!

Columbine: What’s he say? What’s he making up?

Harlequin (turning to the clock): Yes, Columbine, it’s true. It’s time for you to know it. I feel plainly that I shall soon die.

Columbine: Harlequin! Beloved!

Harlequin: Don’t cry, Columbine! I shall go away with a smile on my lips. I want to die as people want to sleep, when it’s late and they’re tired and need rest. I’ve sung all my songs! I’ve revelled all my merriment! I’ve laughed all my laughter! My strength and health have been joyfully spent with my money. I was never mean, and so was always merry and sorrowless. I am Harlequin, and shall die Harlequin. Don’t cry, Columbine! Rather be glad that I’m dying, not like others, but full of delight, content with fate and my conduct. Or would you rather see me grappling to life with greedy eyes and a prayer on my lips? No, Harlequin is not like that. He has fulfilled his mission in life and dies calmly. And, really, didn’t I give my kisses to who wanted them? Didn’t I lavish my soul for the good of others? How many wives of ugly husbands I consoled! And how many little hats did I make for people who thought themselves sages! How many I awoke to passionate song or rattling rage! To how many I gave an example! Now I have outlived my life, and only the husk is left for death! “Catch the moments”—that’s my 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)