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.)
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A Merry Death
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