HIS MOTHER’S FACE
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.]