Hero, villain, cynic--are their parts so much the fresher? The love duets, are they so very new? The death-bed scenes, would you call them UNcommonplace? Hate, and Evil, and Wrong--are THEIR voices new to the booth? What are you waiting for, people? a play with a plot that is novel, with characters that have never strutted before? It will be ready for you, perhaps, when you are ready for it, with new tears and new laughter.
You, Mr.Merryman, were the true philosopher.You saved us from forgetting the reality when the fiction grew somewhat strenuous.
How we all applauded your gag in answer to the hero, when, bewailing his sad fate, he demanded of Heaven how much longer he was to suffer evil fortune."Well, there cannot be much more of it in store for you," you answered him; "it's nearly nine o'clock already, and the show closes at ten." And true to your prophecy the curtain fell at the time appointed, and his troubles were of the past.You showed us the truth behind the mask.When pompous Lord Shallow, in ermine and wig, went to take his seat amid the fawning crowd, you pulled the chair from under him, and down he sat plump on the floor.His robe flew open, his wig flew off.No longer he awed us.His aped dignity fell from him; we saw him a stupid-eyed, bald little man; he imposed no longer upon us.It is your fool who is the only true wise man.
Yours was the best part in the play, Brother Merryman, had you and the audience but known it.But you dreamt of a showier part, where you loved and fought.I have heard you now and again, when you did not know I was near, shouting with sword in hand before your looking-glass.You had thrown your motley aside to don a dingy red coat; you were the hero of the play, you performed the gallant deeds, you made the noble speeches.I wonder what the play would be like, were we all to write our own parts.There would be no clowns, no singing chambermaids.We would all be playing lead in the centre of the stage, with the lime-light exclusively devoted to ourselves.
Would it not be so?
What grand acting parts they are, these characters we write for ourselves alone in our dressing-rooms.We are always brave and noble--wicked sometimes, but if so, in a great, high-minded way;never in a mean or little way.What wondrous deeds we do, while the house looks on and marvels.Now we are soldiers, leading armies to victory.What if we die: it is in the hour of triumph, and a nation is left to mourn.Not in some forgotten skirmish do we ever fall; not for some "affair of outposts" do we give our blood, our very name unmentioned in the dispatches home.Now we are passionate lovers, well losing a world for love--a very different thing to being a laughter-provoking co-respondent in a sordid divorce case.
And the house is always crowded when we play.Our fine speeches always fall on sympathetic ears, our brave deeds are noted and applauded.It is so different in the real performance.So often we play our parts to empty benches, or if a thin house be present, they misunderstand, and laugh at the pathetic passages.And when our finest opportunity comes, the royal box, in which HE or SHE should be present to watch us, is vacant.
Poor little dolls, how seriously we take ourselves, not knowing the springs that stir our bosoms are but clockwork, not seeing the wires to which we dance.Poor little marionettes, shall we talk together, I wonder, when the lights of the booth are out?
We are little wax dollies with hearts.We are little tin soldiers with souls.Oh, King of many toys, are you merely playing with us?
IS it only clockwork within us, this thing that throbs and aches?
Have you wound us up but to let us run down? Will you wind us again to-morrow, or leave us here to rust? IS it only clockwork to which we respond and quiver? Now we laugh, now we cry, now we dance; our little arms go out to clasp one another, our little lips kiss, then say good-bye.We strive, and we strain, and we struggle.We reach now for gold, now for laurel.We call it desire and ambition: are they only wires that you play? Will you throw the clockwork aside, or use it again, O Master?
The lights of the booth grow dim.The springs are broken that kept our eyes awake.The wire that held us erect is snapped, and helpless we fall in a heap on the stage.Oh, brother and sister dollies we played beside, where are you? Why is it so dark and silent? Why are we being put into this black box? And hark! the little doll orchestra--how far away the music sounds! what is it they are playing:--[Start of Gounod's Funeral March of a Marionette]
End
