Poems Dramatic and Lyrical, 1911. A few remaining copies can be had from Hendersons
The Poetasters of Ispahan. A Comedy in Verse 1912. (Out of print.) Goschen
A House of Words (Poems) Blackwell 5s
Twenty-five Chinese Poems, paraphrased by Clifford Bax. Second Edition Revised and Enlarged Hendersons 1s
Friendship (An Essay) Batsford 3s
Antique Pageantry: Four Plays in verse (including The Poetasters). (In the Press)
BY
CLIFFORD BAX
LONDON: HENDERSONS
66 Charing Cross Road, W.C.
1920
To
H. F. RUBINSTEIN
This play was first performed at Farthingstone on June 19th, 1919, by Phyllis Reid (Hilda Gray) and Margot Sieveking (Gioconda), having been written at their request.
CHARACTERS.
| Hilda | A Modern Girl. |
| Gioconda | A Fifteenth Century Venetian. |
SCENE.
A Garden. Entrance right and left. Left, a table and two chairs. (The general effect should suggest a little lawn which leads outward in several directions.)
The arrival of a taxicab is heard, off. Enter left, Hilda in summer hat and dress and with a light cloak on her arm. She carries a folding-map and a small book.
Hilda (speaking off, left).
What's that? As certain as your name's Joe Billings
The taximeter points at fifteen shillings.
Well, and you've had a pound. What? Made a slip?
I thought five shillings was a handsome tip.
You want my father's home-address? 'The Haven,
Chad Crescent, Baystead, North-West 57.'
He'll write you out a cheque—I'm sure he will.
The creature's gone. These taxi-men! But still—
At last I've found the Enchanted Garden... Wait:
Suppose that isn't really Merlin's Gate,
Nor this the garden where a girl who loathes
8Our Twentieth Century (all except its clothes)
May turn the Book of Time to any page
And find herself back in a lovelier age?
The map will show. Yes, there's the gate, and there's
That wall, that table, these two empty chairs...
Everything's right. How wonderful, how splendid,
To know that here the roar of time has ended!
Now, let me see... [Consulting her map.
If I should take that road
What century should I have for my abode?
'To Ancient Rome.' Lovely!
It might be serious,
Though, if I chanced on Nero or Tiberius.
The Romans had no manners... This way here—
So the map says—would lead me to the year
Ten-sixty-six. I won't be such a fool
As go back where I stuck so long at school.
William the First was always dull. I know
He'd make me listen to him—standing so,
With Bayeux hands, knee crookèd, and neck bowed—
While he read all the Domesday Book aloud.
I shan't go there... Now, that's a pretty view!
'The Eighteenth Century: Boswell Avenue.'
I might try that. But no—that won't do either.
I'd have to wear a wig or tell them why there,
Love coffee-houses more than trees and birds
And talk in such tremendously long words.
I know, I know! If I can find the way
I'll wander back into the sumptuous day
9When, in his gardens near the warm lagoon,
Titian gave feasts under the stars and moon.
That would be heavenly! Those were noble times.
There was a grandeur even about the crimes
Of people like the Borgias ... and their dresses,
And the sweet way they wore their hair in tresses,
And—oh, and everything! What was Titian's date?
I mustn't err into a time too late;
But how to make quite sure? I'll take a look
In this adorable fire-coloured book—
Addington Symonds... Oh, that I knew more!
Was it in fifteen-sixty or before?
Gioconda (speaking off, right).
I thank you, gondolier. You drowned my nurse
With true dramatic finish. Take this purse.
So—I am in that Garden where time speeds
Backward or forward as our fancy needs.
How sick I am of cloaks and ambuscades,
Of poison, daggers, moonlight serenades,
Of those dull dances that are all I get—
Pavane, gavotte, forlana, minuet—
And the long pageant of our life at Venice!
Now, in the Twentieth Century there is tennis,
With cream and strawberries round a chestnut-tree,
And day-long idling in the June-blue sea,
And soda-fountains, too, and motor-cars,
And Henley Weeks and Russian Ballet 'stars.'
10Oh, what a wealth of joy that century has!
To think that I myself may learn to jazz!
Truly, I judge it has no slightest flaw—
The glorious age of Bennett, Wells, and Shaw.
Gramercy now—Shaw, Bennett, Wells, and Co.—
Since you have shown me what I longed to know,
How to behave, talk, smoke, and bob my hair
In nineteen-twenty, when at last I'm there.
Could I but find a guide! How shall I tell
Which road to follow? If I listen well
I ought to hear the roaring of their trains,
Their motor-horns, their humming monoplanes...
The very bees are silent... [Seeing Hilda.
Who is that?
Surely, unless the books have lied, her hat
Came from 'Roulette's,' in Portman Square, West One!
A Twentieth-Century girl! The thing is done—
I need but ask her which way London lies.
Farewell, Rialto! Farewell, Bridge of Sighs!
Dear Signorina ... Signorina ... Deep
In Bennett's fragrant works, or can she sleep?
Could The Five Towns have bored her? Let me try
Once more. Most noble Signorina...
Hilda (starting up).
Why,
Who are you, lady? By your dress and ways
I think you must have come from Titian's days.
Gioconda.
Indeed, I do. Old Titian! How he talks!
He did my portrait last July in chalks.
But grant me the great liberty, I pray,
Of asking what your name is...
Hilda.
Hilda Gray.
Gioconda.
How sweet and to the point!
Hilda.
And yours?
Gioconda.
Gioconda
Francesca Violante Giulia della Bionda.
Hilda.
It is a poem in itself! It shines
Like the soft sheen on Tasso's velvet lines.
What can have led you to forego an age
When life was an illuminated page
From some superb romance?
Gioconda.
And what, I wonder,
Can have torn you and your rich time asunder?
Hilda.
I'll tell you, for I'm sure you'll sympathise.
I have a lover...
Gioconda.
That is no surprise.
Hilda.
And by the post this morning came a letter—
Gioconda.
From him?
Hilda.
From him.
Gioconda.
What could have happened better?
Hilda.
Ah! naturally you think that Harry writes
Of longing, suicide, and sleepless nights.
Did he, I'd read his letters ten times over—
But you don't know the Twentieth Century lover.
Oh, for a man who'd write through tears, all swimmily,
And woo me with grand metaphor and simile!
I couldn't bear the slang that Harry used
In asking for my hand.
Gioconda.
So you refused!
Hilda.
Yes, and came here to seek a braver time.
Gioconda.
How odd! I had a letter, all in rhyme,
Brought by a lackey to my father's gate
Just when dawn broke. As if I couldn't wait!
He dashed up, panting; and his horse's mouth
Was flecked with blood and foam...
Hilda (clasping her hands).
The passionate South!
Gioconda.
The fellow gave the letter, gasped, went red,
And straightway horse and lackey fell down dead.
I scanned the note, observed the flowery phrases
In which the writer smothered me with praises;
Compared them with the style of Bernard Shaw,
And told him briskly that he might withdraw.
Hilda.
If I could see that letter!
Gioconda.
So you shall,
Sweet friend—or, rather, right you are, old pal.
I'll read it.
Hilda.
Do!... I see his passion's flood
Demands red ink.
Gioconda.
Oh dear, no—that's his blood.
Now, listen. Did you ever hear a style
Quite so absurd? I call it simply vile. [Reading.
Hilda.
Gioconda, what a lover!
Gioconda.
So I think—
His brain a dictionary, his blood mere ink.
Hilda.
Oh, but I mean how fine a lover! Would
That mine could pen a letter half so good!
Gioconda.
How does he write?
Hilda.
Write! Would you deign to call
That 'writing'—this illiterate blotted scrawl?[Reading.
Now, wasn't that enough to make me mad?
It is a shame! It really is too bad!
'Dear Hilda'—plain 'dear'! And what girl could marry
A man who, when proposing, ends 'yours, Harry'?
Gioconda.
I love his downright manner. In my mind
I see him, a tall figure; and, behind,
His old two-seater. Yes, I see him plainly—
Close-cropped—
Hilda.
Half bald.
Gioconda.
Slow-moving—
Hilda.
And ungainly.
Gioconda.
A brow like H. G. Wells' my fancy draws,
An eye like Bennett's and a beard like Shaw's.
I know your Harry—just the English type,
16A silent strong man married to his pipe,
With so few words, except about machines,
That he can never tell you what he means:
But were I his, and we two went a-walking,
What should that matter? I could do the talking.
Hilda.
Surely you see, Gioconda, I require
A lover who can make love with some fire.
Gioconda.
And I a lover so much overcome
By deep emotion that it leaves him dumb.
Hilda.
No poetry? Then, so far as I can tell,
The Twentieth Century ought to suit you well...
I've an idea!
Gioconda.
What is it?
Hilda.
This: that you
Show me how best you'd like a man to woo.
Gioconda.
I will, I will!
Hilda.
Imagine, then, that I
Am she for whom you say you'd gladly die.
This is my room at Baystead: that's the street:
You must come in from there— [Leading her, left.
and then we meet.
Gioconda.
By Holy Church, a pretty sport to play!
God shield you, Signorina Hilda Grey! [Exit left.
Hilda.
Now—what's the time? It must be half-past four.
It is. I'll give him just one minute more.
Goodness! I do look horrid... Will he bring
An emerald or a pearl engagement-ring?
He comes! I'll take pearls as a last resort.
Enter, left, Gioconda (carrying a pipe and a walking-stick).
Gioconda.
Well, and how are you? In the pink, old sport?
Hilda.
I'm glad to see you, Harry. Do sit down.
Gioconda.
'Some' heat to-day, what? Even here. In town
Perfectly awful. Got a match?
I say,
Old thing—you really look top-hole to-day.
Hilda.
Well, naturally: I knew that you were coming.
You're very quiet.
Gioconda (with a start).
Oh! what's that you're thumbing?
Hilda.
Addington Symonds.
Gioconda.
Any good?
Hilda.
Why—gorgeous!
You ought to read it—all about the Borgias.
Gioconda.
What are they? Oh, I see! I had enough
Up at the 'Varsity of that sort of stuff.
I say—oh, blast the thing, this pipe's a dud!
Hilda.
You smoke too much. They say it slows the blood,
And that you simply can't afford.[Pause.
Gioconda.
I say—
Hilda.
Well, what?
Gioconda.
You really look top-hole to-day.
Hilda.
How nice! But flattery always was your wont. [Pause.
Gioconda.
I say—
Hilda.
That's just it, Harry dear—you don't.
Gioconda.
I came to ask you something... [Producing a ring.
Ever seen
A ring like this? Not a bad sort of green.
Hilda (taking it).
Emeralds! I worship emeralds. They enthrone
All the luxuriant summer in a stone.
Do let me just see how it looks! The third
Finger, I think, is generally preferred?
How splendid! Won't she be delighted?
Gioconda.
Who?
Hilda.
Your dear Aunt Kate.
Gioconda.
I bought the thing for you.
Hilda.
Harry!
Gioconda.
You know—a what-d'you-call-it ring.
Hilda.
Engagement?
Gioconda.
That's the goods. And in the Spring
The parson gets our guinea. What about it?
Hilda.
See, how it fits! I couldn't do without it.
Gioconda.
Right-o! Then, that's that: good. But if you carry
A diary, jot down, 'Next Spring, marry Harry'—
You might forget. You've got a diary?
Hilda (bringing a small diary from her bag).
Look—
I did blush—buying an engagement-book!
Gioconda.
Well, how's the enemy? Good Lord! what a shock!
D'you know, old bean, it's more than five o'clock?
Hilda.
You'll have some tea?
Gioconda.
Can't. Sorry. Told two men
I'd play a foursome with them at 5.10.
You'd better make the fourth.
Hilda.
I really can't.
I've got some new delphiniums I must plant.
Gioconda (going out, left).
See you to-morrow, then.
Hilda.
You'll drive me frantic
If you're not just the teeniest bit romantic!
Gioconda.
It isn't done. You're absolutely wrong
In asking me to do that stunt. So long!
There! Did I play it well? You'd be my wife?
Hilda (sighing).
My dear, you played old Harry to the life—
His gaucherie...
Gioconda.
His noble self-command...
Hilda.
The way he shifts his cane from hand to hand...
Gioconda.
A nervous trick that shows how much he feels...
Hilda.
All I know is—I'd have a man who kneels
And pours out passion in a style as rippling
As the best Swinburne—or at least as Kipling.
Gioconda.
Then I'll now be your lady. To your part—
Woo me as you'd be wooed!
Hilda.
With all my heart!
Last Miracle of the World, sainted, adored,
Divine Gioconda—hear me, I beg!
Gioconda.
My lord!
Hilda.
Dost know of passion? Is that heart so pure
As not to guess what torments I endure
Who for so long have sighed for thee in vain?
And wilt thou have no pity on my pain?
Wilt thou still spurn me as a thing abhorred
Whose only crime is to love thee?
Gioconda.
My lord—
Hilda.
Stay! I will brook no answer. For thy sake
Did I not paint the town in crimson-lake?
Have I not wrenched thee through thy nunnery-bars?
And bear I not some ninety-seven scars
Taken as I fought my way to thy fair feet?
Think how thy relatives rushed into the street
To save thee—how I put them to the sword
And left them strewn about in heaps!
Gioconda.
My lord—
Hilda.
Had I a boy's light love when I, to win
Thy favour, cut off all thy kith and kin?
Run through the list! Measure my love by that!
Two great-grandfathers (one, I own, was fat);
Five brothers; fourteen uncles; half a score
Of nephews (and I dare say even more);
23A brace of maiden-aunts; a second-cousin;
And family connections by the dozen.
Does it not melt that pitiless heart of ice
To see thyself secured at such a price?
Gioconda.
My lord—
Hilda.
Or if indeed thy heart requires
Flame fiercer than my love's Etnaean fires—
Ask what thou wilt, but do not ask that I
Live on. Command me, rather, how to die.
Say in what style thou'dst have me perish here,
So that at least my ardour win one tear!
Choose what thou wilt—I'll execute thy charge—
Nor fear to speak: my repertoire is large.
I can suspend myself upon a rafter;
Fall on my blade, and die with horrid laughter;
Leap from a height; read Bennett's books; or swallow
Poison—and, mark you, with no sweet to follow.
Gioconda.
My lord—
Hilda.
Thy choice is made?
Gioconda.
My lord—
Hilda.
Alack!
Gioconda.
I have accepted thee ten minutes back.
Hilda.
Then—I will deign to live. My castle stands
Four-towered among its olive-silvered lands.
Away! Away! Thou art all heaven to me!
Gioconda.
Wonderful! That's Pandolfo to a tee!
Hilda.
I should adore him!
Gioconda.
And I Harry, too...
If only you were I and I were you!
But soft! since here we stand beyond the range
Of Time, why don't we swop
Hilda.
You mean 'exchange'?
Why not? We will![Moving quickly, right.
May Titian's age enfold me!
Gioconda.
Stop! Stop! You can't go yet. You haven't told me
Where I can find the Twentieth Century.
Hilda (leading her front, and pointing to the audience).
Then,
Behold its ladies and its gentlemen.
Gioconda.
What lovely people!... All the same, you know,
They're not as I have pictured them.
Hilda.
How so?
Gioconda.
They're all so still... And then—my fancy boggles
To see not one who's wearing motor-goggles!
How can I get among them?
Hilda.
You must jump
Down there.
Gioconda.
But that would mean a dreadful bump!
Hilda.
You want to go from fifteen-sixty sheer
To nineteen-twenty. 'Tis a jump, my dear...
And so—farewell! I come, I come at last—
O fire and sound and perfumes of the Past!
Gioconda.
Her eyes were green. However hard he tries,
Pandolfo never can resist green eyes.
I know he'll die for her and not for me.
Why did I let her go? It shall not be!
Hilda.
It shall not be! Why did I let her go?
Harry will love her more than me, I know.
Gioconda!
Gioconda.
Hilda!
Hilda.
Somehow, after all,
I can't let Harry go beyond recall.
I think of his good heart: I know how proud
I'll be to watch him through a dusty cloud
When his new car, balanced upon one tire,
Rolls roistering through the lanes of Devonshire.
Gioconda.
I too, fair friend, perceive with sudden terror
The greatness of my momentary error.
I mustn't let you risk the enterprise...
Pandolfo never could endure green eyes!
Hilda.
Let us each make the best of her own age!
Gioconda.
But sometimes you will write me—just a page?
Hilda.
I will indeed. And you?
Gioconda.
And so will I.
Hilda—farewell!
Hilda.
Gioconda, dear—good-bye!
So ends our fantasy—the slight design
Arisen and gone like sound in summer trees,
Gioconda.
The burden such as every mind may seize—
That in all centuries life is goodly wine!
Hilda.
Which has the more of joy, her age or mine,
We leave you to determine as you please.
Gioconda.
Mine has the painting-schools—the Sienese,
Venetian and unchallenged Florentine.
Hilda.
Mine has the knowledge that our mortal pains
Are fleeing from the skilled physician's arts.
Gioconda.
Mine the delight of unspoiled hills and plains,
Fair speech, adventure, and romantic hearts.
Hilda.
And mine a sense that, by the single sun
That all men share, the world for man is one.
LONDON: STRANGEWAYS, PRINTERS.
AT THE BOMB SHOP
HENDERSONS
66 Charing Cross Road
PLAYS
| Post Paid | ||
| s | d | |
| By JOSIP KOSOR | ||
| People of the Universe Four Serbo-Croatian Plays: The Woman, Passion's Furnace, Reconciliation, The Invincible Ship | 7 | 6 |
| By AUGUST STRINDBERG | ||
| Advent. A Mystery Play | 1 | 2 |
| Julie. A Play in One Act | 1 | 2 |
| The Creditor. A Play in One Act | 1 | 2 |
| Paria, Simoon. Two One Act Plays | 1 | 2 |
| By LEONID ANDREYEV | ||
| The Dear Departing. A Frivolous Performance in One Act | 1 | 2 |
| By ANTON CHEKHOV | ||
| The Seagull. A Play in Four Acts | 1 | 2 |
| By MILES MALLESON | ||
| Youth. A Play in Three Acts | 1 | 8 |
| The Little White Thought. A Fantastic Scrap | 1 | 2 |
| Paddly Pools. A Little Fairy Play | 1 | 2 |
| Maurice's Own Idea. A Little Dream Play | 1 | 2 |
| By E. S. P. HAYNES | ||
| A Study in Bereavement. A Play in One Act | 1 | 2 |
| By JOHN BURLEY | ||
| Tom Trouble. A Play in Four Acts | 1 | 8 |
| By GEORG KAISER | ||
| From Morn to Midnight. A Play in Seven Scenes | 2 | 3 |
| By HERMAN HEIJERMANS | ||
| The Good Hope. A Play in Four Acts. (In the Press.) | ||
| The Rising Sun. A Play in Four Acts. (In the Press.) | ||
| By CLIFFORD BAX | ||
| Square Pegs. A Rhymed Fantasy for Two Girls | 1 | 2 |
| Antique Pageantry. Four Plays in verse (including | ||
| The Poetasters). (In the Press.) | ||
| By N. EVREINOF | ||
| The Theatre of the Soul. A Monodrama in One Act (2nd Edition in the Press.) | 1 | 2 |
COTERIE A Quarterly
ART, PROSE AND POETRY
Edited by Chaman Lall Contributors
T. W. Earp, Wilfred Rowland Childe, R. C. Trevelyan, L. A. G. Strong, A. E. Coppard, Aldous Huxley, Eric C. Dickinson, Harold J. Massingham, Chaman Lall, Russell Green, T. S. Eliot, Conrad Aiken, Richard Aldington, Henri Gaudier-Brzeska, John Gould Fletcher, Cora Gordon, Helen Rootham, Edith Sitwell, Walter Sickert, W. Rothenstein, Lawrence Atkinson, Nina Hamnett, A. Odle, A. Allinson, E. R. Brown, William Roberts, Edward Wadsworth, E. H. W. Meyerstein, Herbert Read, Babette Deutsch, E. Crawshay Williams, Turnbull, John Flanagan, Modigliani, Edward J. O'Brien, Wilfred Owen, Thomas Moult, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, Douglas Goldring, E. R. Dodds, Sacheverell Sitwell, E. C. Blunden, Harold Monro, Robert Nicholls, F. S. Flint, Osbert Sitwell, John J. Adams, Frederick Manning, Charles Beadle, Royston Dunnachie Campbell, John Cournos, Henry J. Felton, H. D., Gerald Gould, C. B. Kitchin, Amy Lowell, Paul Selver, Iris Tree, Zadkine, E. M. O'R. Dickie, André Derain, David Bomberg, Otakar Brezina, E. Powys Mathers, 'Michal,' Raymond Pierpoint, Benjamin Gilbert Brooks, Frank Golding, Archipenko, René Durey, Mary Stella Edwards.
LONDON: HENDERSONS 66 CHARING CROSS ROAD
The book's use of 3-dot ellipses has been retained.