Part 3 — TABLEAUX FOR PUBLIC ENTERTAINMENTS.
Reading edition
JOAN OF ARC AT THE STAKE.
CHARACTER AND COSTUME.
Maiden.—Loose, white robe, wing-like sleeves, displaying arm; hair long, loose, and flowing over shoulders.
THE TABLEAU.
A large post in centre of stage, around which are piled fagots. Fastened to the post by means of a chain around the waist stands the maiden, with eyes cast upward, and the whole attitude that of exaltation. A strong red light suddenly thrown upon the lower part of the picture, from both sides, will produce the effect of ignited wood.
Music, if any, triumphant.
WINTER IN THE LAP OF SPRING.
CHARACTERS AND COSTUMES.
Winter.—Black, loose dress to the feet, fur cap, white wig, and long white beard; dress flecked with bits of cotton, to represent snow; face full and florid. The part may be taken by a lady.
Spring.—Trailing loose dress of white, sleeves draped so as to show arm to elbow; scarf and sash of pink; long, flowing, yellow hair; sprays of roses and other flowers gracefully fastened on the dress; wealth of flowers on the head.
THE TABLEAU.
Spring is seated on a chair, over which may be thrown a covering of white or pink, upon which are scattered profusely sprays of flowers. She holds at her side a golden sceptre.
Winter is seated in the lap of Spring holding extended in his right hand a sceptre of black.
THERE’S NO ROSE WITHOUT A THORN.
The scene is a parlor.—Standing in the foreground is a young girl, simply dressed. In her left hand she has a rose, and holding out her right hand shows to her companion the scratches made by the thorns (a little carmine paint, put on with a fine camel’s-hair pencil, makes very painless scratches.) Her companion, a young man dressed as a mechanic’s apprentice (a carpenter’s, butcher’s, shoemaker’s or any other trade), is, with a look of sympathy, raising the wounded hand to his lips. Behind the young man stands his employer, with an expression of rage, raising a rope about to strike the apprentice. He is not perceived by either of the young people.
In the background is a child, with a look of great glee, putting its fingers into a jar, marked jam, while the mother, behind the child, is raising her hand to box its ears.
A NUN AT HER DEVOTIONS.
It hardly needs description. A background of dark brown gauze, very faintly lighted at the upper right-hand corner; a dress of black serge or stuff, with black veil and white coif; a crucifix and rosary—these are the very simple materials needed. Let the light fall from the left-hand upper corner in front. Choose your nun for the beauty of her eyes, the regularity and refinement of feature, and the elegance of her hands.
TABLEAU WITH RECITALS.
Characters.
Poet.—A young man with long hair and wide linen collar turned down over coat collar.
Statue.—Personated by a young woman in white, with arms bare.
(The Poet speaks.) Thou holdest me, thou holdest me, O marble presence, cold and fair. I cannot draw my feet past thee Within thy niche above the stair. I found thee in a mossy cave— The entrance to a buried shrine; The rocks around a shudder gave As thence I bore my prize divine. What master wrought thee long ago— Who but Pygmalion’s scholar apt? The rose upon thy cheek of snow Ofttimes he saw in vision rapt. The day upspringing in thine eye He fancied now, and now it seemed A hovering smile, a gradual sigh, Thy lips from silence dead redeemed; But, dying ere the moment ripe When thou should’st gather vital fire, He left thee, a half-conscious type Of Love and Love’s unvoiced desire. Thou holdest me, thou holdest me, O marble presence, cold and fair! Now let thy prisoned soul be free, Thy breast its long-sealed fate declare. (The Statue speaks.) Thou troublest me, thou troublest me! A thousand years unused to speech, Why should the charm dissolve for thee, Or why to thee my secret teach? Not Paros, nor Pentelicus, E’er held me in its quarried hill; Nor master’s chisel carved me thus, With lofty thought and patient skill. Ah, surely, not Pygmalion’s hand Unprisoned me, through loving art— I, who in marble moveless stand, Once held quick veins and pulsing heart; Love, changed to hate, wrought this cold change I froze beneath his bitter eye; Love, changed to Hate—transformer strange— Forbade me live, forbade me die! Thou troublest me, thou troublest me; No further question; go thy way! He, only, who could set me free, Hath long since crumbled back to clay! Thy soul in peace if thou would’st save, And give forgetfulness to mine, Restore me to that mossy cave, The entrance to a buried shrine! Edith M. Thomas.
CINDERELLA’S SLIPPER.
(This beautiful tableau may be represented in three or four scenes, with fine dress effect.)