King, ten, Knave, and five of Clubs; ace, Queen, ten, and six of
Diamonds; Queen, Knave, ten, nine of Spades._
THE KING. That’s not a no-trumper. You might have made no trumps if
it had been your make. As for redoubling, it’s too absurd.
[_The_ QUEEN _takes the trick with the Queen of Hearts; neither
the_ KING _nor the_ DAUPHIN _have got any._
THE QUEEN. No Hearts. How odd! Then all the rest are ours. I’ve got
nine Hearts now.
THE KING. I beg your pardon. It’s not at all so certain.
THE QUEEN. Very well, we’ll play it.
CATHERINE. I can see your cards, Papa.
[_They play; the_ QUEEN _rakes in her tricks; in the last round
but one the_ KING _throws away the ace of Diamonds instead of the
ace of Clubs, thereby enabling_ CATHERINE _to make the King of
Diamonds._
THE QUEEN (_triumphantly_). The Grand Slam!
THE DAUPHIN. You wouldn’t have made it if Papa had played properly,
and not thrown away his ace of Diamonds.
THE KING. I couldn’t have done anything else, and it wouldn’t have
made the slightest difference.
THE DAUPHIN. We should have saved the slam, that’s all.
THE KING. In the first place you ought never to have redoubled.
THE DAUPHIN. I held excellent cards.
THE KING. You had nothing at all--absolutely nothing.
THE DAUPHIN. Two aces; ace, King, Knave, ten of Clubs----
THE KING. I had the ten of Clubs.
CATHERINE. No, Papa, I had the ten.
THE DAUPHIN. I’m quite positive I had the ten.
THE QUEEN. As a matter of fact I had the ten of Clubs.
THE KING. I know I had the ten. It’s not the slightest use discussing
the matter.
CATHERINE. Oh, Papa, how can you say that! Of course you hadn’t.
THE KING. I played this game before you were born and I suppose I
know if a hand is a no-trumper or not.
THE DAUPHIN. I had a much better hand than Catherine’s. She had no
right to double.
CATHERINE. I had everything----
THE DAUPHIN. Besides which it wasn’t fair.
CATHERINE. What wasn’t fair?
THE DAUPHIN. To play Hearts.
THE KING. You’re quite right, Charles, it wasn’t fair.
THE DAUPHIN. You would never have played Hearts, if Mamma hadn’t told
you to.
THE QUEEN. I never told the child anything. I only played according
to the rules.
THE KING. In the first place the rule didn’t apply, and in the second
place it’s not the rule. It’s a stupid convention invented by the
Italians.
THE QUEEN. I always have played Hearts in doubled no trumps, and I
always shall.
THE KING. You might just as well give your partner a trick under the
table.
CATHERINE. I should have played Hearts in any case.
THE DAUPHIN. What a lie!
CATHERINE. It’s you who tell lies. You said you’d the ten of Clubs.
THE DAUPHIN. We’ve always played from the shortest suit before.
THE KING. Besides which, you never said a word about it until you saw
your cards.
THE QUEEN. Of course not, because I always play Hearts. It’s so much
the best game.
THE KING. If you did that with other people they’d consider it
cheating.
THE DAUPHIN. It was cheating.
CATHERINE. You needn’t talk about cheating, Charles. You cheated this
morning at tennis--twice.
THE DAUPHIN. I didn’t. You don’t understand the score. No woman does.
THE KING. Women have got no morals about cards whatsoever.
THE QUEEN. As a matter of fact we should have won anyhow, if
Catherine had played Hearts or not.
CATHERINE. Of course we should.
THE DAUPHIN. Oh! Really!
THE KING. You couldn’t possibly have made the trick.
THE QUEEN. We should have made at least four tricks; we couldn’t help
it.
THE KING. And you talk the whole time--no wonder one loses.
THE DAUPHIN. It’s quite impossible to play when they interrupt.
THE KING. And touch the cards.
THE DAUPHIN. And tell each other what to play.
THE KING. And argue about every trick.
THE DAUPHIN. And then never tell the truth.
THE QUEEN. If I were you, Charles, I would learn the rudimentary
elements of the game.
THE KING. And not double when you’ve got nothing.
CATHERINE. And not revoke.
THE DAUPHIN. When did I revoke?
CATHERINE. Last night.
THE DAUPHIN. I didn’t.
CATHERINE. I suppose it wasn’t a real revoke, just like I suppose you
had the ten of Clubs just now.
THE DAUPHIN. So I had.
CATHERINE. You wouldn’t dare play like that if we were playing for
money.
THE DAUPHIN. Very well. If you think I cheat I shan’t play at all.
[_He goes out of the room and slams the door._
THE KING. We’ll play without him.
CATHERINE. I’d much rather play without him. Charles is quite
impossible at cards--in fact at all games.
THE QUEEN. Whose deal is it?
THE KING. We must begin a fresh rubber. When one plays three, a game
counts for a rubber.
THE QUEEN. Charles!
THE DAUPHIN (_opening the door_). What is it?
THE QUEEN. Come back at once. Don’t be so silly. Your father wants to
play.
THE DAUPHIN. It’s no good my playing if you all say I cheat.
CATHERINE. I never said you cheated.
THE QUEEN. Come back directly. (_The_ DAUPHIN _comes back and sits
down at the table sulkily._)
THE KING. Whose deal is it?
CATHERINE. Mine.
THE DAUPHIN. Mine.
CATHERINE. Papa dealt last time.
THE DAUPHIN. No; you dealt and I doubled.
CATHERINE. Papa dealt and left it.
THE DAUPHIN. You dealt, because I remember you nearly made a misdeal.
CATHERINE. I never make misdeals.
THE DAUPHIN. Always.
CATHERINE. Very well. You’d better play without me.
[_She goes out and slams the door._
THE KING. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! They’ll drive me mad!
THE QUEEN (_going to the door_). Catherine, come back this moment.
Because Charles chooses to make a fool of himself that’s no reason
why you should.
CATHERINE. I don’t want to play. It’s no fun playing with Charles.
THE KING. Oh! do let’s go on with the game. Do try and not quarrel
so, children. (CATHERINE _comes back and sits down._)
CATHERINE. I’ll come back this time, but if he says I cheat again, I
shall never play again as long as I live.
THE QUEEN. Hush! It’s Catherine’s deal.
CATHERINE. There you see!
THE QUEEN. Hush!
[CATHERINE _deals._
THE QUEEN (_looking at her cards_). I shouldn’t at all mind if it was
left to me this time.
THE KING. You’ve no business whatever to say a word.
THE QUEEN. As if it made any difference!
THE KING. It makes an enormous difference.
THE QUEEN. Not in this case.
THE KING. That’s nothing to do with it. It’s the principle that’s
wrong.
CATHERINE. I leave it.
THE KING. There you see!
CATHERINE. Papa, I couldn’t do anything else.
THE QUEEN. I make no trumps.
[_The_ DAUPHIN _leads a card; the_ QUEEN _puts down her cards,
revealing an excellent lead; _CATHERINE _hesitates a moment what
to play from dummy’s hand, the_ QUEEN _touches one of dummy’s
cards to show._
THE KING. Isabeau, the dummy has no business to touch the cards. That
_is_ cheating if you like.
THE QUEEN (_rising up in great dignity_). I’ve played cards for
twenty-five years and have never yet been called a cheat in my own
house.
[_She walks to the door._
CATHERINE. Mamma, Mamma, do come back.
THE DAUPHIN (_walking after her_). Oh! Do come back!
THE KING (_getting up_). Don’t be so absurd. You’re all of you one
worse than the other!
THE QUEEN. No, no, he called me a cheat.
THE KING. I never did anything of the sort.
THE QUEEN. No wonder the children never speak the truth when they’ve
got such a father!
THE KING. Now sit down and let’s go on.
[_They sit down. The_ KING _plays._ CATHERINE _plays from her hand,
and then the_ DAUPHIN. CATHERINE _again hesitates about dummy’s
card, and the_ QUEEN _again touches a card showing her what to
play._
THE DAUPHIN. Papa, Mamma’s cheated again.
THE QUEEN (_getting up_). I won’t have you say that.
CATHERINE (_shouting_). Oh! Charles!
THE DAUPHIN (_screaming_). But she showed you----
[_The_ KING _gets up and throws the cards to the other end of the
room, kicks over the card-table, and rushes to the door
screaming._
THE QUEEN (_terror-stricken_). Heaven have mercy upon us, your
father’s gone mad!
CURTAIN.
VII
THE REHEARSAL
SCENE.--_The Globe Theatre, 1595. On the stage the_ AUTHOR, _the_
PRODUCER, _and the_ STAGE MANAGER _are standing. A rehearsal of
“Macbeth” is about to begin. Waiting in the wings are the actors
who are playing the_ WITCHES, BANQUO, MACDUFF, _etc. They are all
men._
THE STAGE MANAGER. We’d better begin with the last act.
THE PRODUCER. I think we’ll begin with the first act. We’ve never
done it all through yet.
THE STAGE MANAGER. Mr. Colman isn’t here. It’s no good doing the
first act without Duncan.
THE PRODUCER. Where is Mr. Colman? Did you let him know about
rehearsal?
THE STAGE MANAGER. I sent a messenger to his house in Gray’s Inn.
THE FIRST WITCH. Mr. Colman is playing Psyche in a masque at
Kenilworth. He won’t be back until the day after to-morrow.
THE PRODUCER. That settles it. We’ll begin with the fifth act.
THE FIRST WITCH. Then I suppose I can go.
THE SECOND WITCH. } And I suppose we
THE THIRD WITCH. } needn’t wait.
THE STAGE MANAGER. Certainly not. We’re going on to the fourth act as
soon as we’ve done the fifth.
BANQUO. But I suppose you don’t want me.
THE STAGE MANAGER. And what about your ghost entrance in Act IV.? We
must get the business right this time; besides, we’ll do the second
act if we’ve time. Now, Act V., Mr. Thomas and Mr. Bowles, please.
THE FIRST WITCH. Mr. Bowles can’t come to-day. He told me to tell
you. He’s having a tooth pulled out.
THE STAGE MANAGER. Then will you read the waiting gentlewoman’s part,
Mr. Lyle. You can take this scrip.
[_The_ FIRST WITCH _takes the scrip._
Where is Mr. Thomas?
THE FIRST WITCH. He said he was coming.
THE STAGE MANAGER. We can’t wait. I’ll read his part. We’ll leave out
the beginning and just give Mr. Hughes his cue.
THE FIRST WITCH (_reading_). “Having no witness to confirm my speech.”
THE STAGE MANAGER. Mr. Hughes.
THE FIRST WITCH. He was here a moment ago.
THE STAGE MANAGER (_louder_). Mr. Hughes.
_Enter_ LADY MACBETH (MR. HUGHES, _a young
man about 24_)
LADY MACBETH. Sorry. (_He comes on down some steps L.C._)
THE PRODUCER. That will never do, Mr. Hughes; there’s no necessity to
sway as if you were intoxicated, and you mustn’t look at your feet.
LADY MACBETH. It’s the steps. They’re so rickety.
THE PRODUCER. We’ll begin again from “speech.”
[LADY MACBETH _comes on again. He looks
straight in front of him and falls heavily on
to the ground._
I said those steps were to be mended yesterday.
[_The_ FIRST WITCH _is convulsed with laughter._
LADY MACBETH. There’s nothing to laugh at.
THE PRODUCER. Are you hurt, Mr. Hughes?
LADY MACBETH. Not much. (_The steps are replaced by two supers._)
THE PRODUCER. Now from “speech.”
[MR. HUGHES _comes on again._
THE PRODUCER. You must not hold the taper upside down.
LADY MACBETH. How can I rub my hands and hold a taper too? What’s the
use of the taper?
THE PRODUCER. You can rub the back of your hand. You needn’t wash
your hands in the air. That’s better.
[_The dialogue between the_ DOCTOR _and the_ GENTLEWOMAN _proceeds
until_ LADY MACBETH’S _cue: “hour.”_
_Enter the_ DOCTOR (MR. THOMAS). _He waits R._
LADY MACBETH. “Here’s a damned spot.”
THE STAGE MANAGER. No, no, Mr. Hughes, “Yet here’s a spot.”
THE PRODUCER. Begin again from “hands.”
GENTLEWOMAN. “It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus
washing her hands. I’ve known her to continue in this three-quarters
of an hour.”
LADY MACBETH. “Yet here’s a damned spot.”
THE STAGE MANAGER. It’s not “damned” at all. That comes later.
LADY MACBETH. It’s catchy. Couldn’t I say “mark” instead of “spot” in
the first line?
THE DOCTOR (_coming forward_). That would entirely spoil the effect
of my “Hark!” You see “mark” rhymes with “Hark.” It’s impossible.
THE PRODUCER. Oh! it’s you, Mr. Thomas. Will you go straight on.
We’ll do the whole scene over presently. Now from “hour.”
LADY MACBETH. “Yes, here’s a spot.”
THE STAGE MANAGER. It’s not “Yes,” but “Yet,” Mr. Hughes.
LADY MACBETH. “Yet here’s a spot.”
THE DOCTOR (_at the top of his voice_). “Hark!”
THE PRODUCER. Not so loud, Mr. Thomas, that would wake her up.
THE DOCTOR (_in a high falsetto_). “Har-r-rk! She spe-e-e-aks. I will
... set ... down.”
THE PRODUCER. You needn’t bleat that “speaks,” Mr. Thomas, and the
second part of that line is cut.
THE DOCTOR. It’s not cut in my part. “Hark, she speaks.”
LADY MACBETH. “Yet here’s a spot.”
THE STAGE MANAGER. No, Mr. Hughes; “out damned spot.”
LADY MACBETH. Sorry.
THE PRODUCER. We must get that right. Now from “hour.”
LADY MACBETH. “Yet here’s a spot.”
THE DOCTOR. “Hark! she speaks.”
LADY MACBETH. “Get out, damned spot! Get out, I say! One, two,
three, four: why there’s plenty of time to do’t. Oh! Hell! Fie, fie,
my Lord! a soldier and a beard? What have we got to fear when none
can call our murky power to swift account withal? You’d never have
thought the old man had so much blood in him!”
THE AUTHOR. I don’t think you’ve got those lines quite right yet, Mr.
Hughes.
LADY MACBETH. What’s wrong?
THE STAGE MANAGER. There’s no “get.” It’s “one; two”: and not
“one, two, three, four.” Then it’s “Hell is murky.” And there’s no
“plenty.” And it’s “a soldier and _afeared_,” and not “a soldier and
a _beard_.”
THE AUTHOR. And after that you made two lines into rhymed verse.
MR. HUGHES. Yes, I know I did. I thought it wanted it.
THE PRODUCER. Please try to speak your lines as they are written, Mr.
Hughes.
_Enter_ MR. BURBAGE, _who plays Macbeth_
MR. BURBAGE. That scene doesn’t go. Now don’t you think Macbeth had
better walk in his sleep instead of Lady Macbeth?
THE STAGE MANAGER. That’s an idea.
THE PRODUCER. I think the whole scene might be cut. It’s quite
unnecessary.
LADY MACBETH. Then I shan’t come on in the whole of the fifth act. If
that scene’s cut I shan’t play at all.
THE STAGE MANAGER. We’re thinking of transferring the scene to
Macbeth. (_To the_ AUTHOR.) It wouldn’t need much altering. Would you
mind rewriting that scene, Mr. Shakespeare? It wouldn’t want much
alteration. You’d have to change that line about Arabia. Instead of
this “little hand,” you might say: “All the perfumes of Arabia will
not sweeten this horny hand.” I’m not sure it isn’t more effective.
THE AUTHOR. I’m afraid it might get a laugh.
MR. BURBAGE. Not if I play it.
THE AUTHOR. I think it’s more likely that Lady Macbeth would walk in
her sleep, but----
MR. BURBAGE. That doesn’t signify. I can make a great hit in that
scene.
LADY MACBETH. If you take that scene from me, I shan’t play Juliet
to-night.
THE STAGE MANAGER (_aside to_ PRODUCER). We can’t possibly get
another Juliet.
THE PRODUCER. On the whole, I think we must leave the scene as it is.
MR. BURBAGE. I’ve got nothing to do in the last act. What’s the use
of my coming to rehearsal when there’s nothing for me to rehearse?
THE PRODUCER. Very well, Mr. Burbage. We’ll go on to the third scene
at once. We’ll go through your scene again later, Mr. Hughes.
MR. BURBAGE. Before we do this scene there’s a point I wish to
settle. In Scene V., when Seyton tells me the Queen’s dead, I say:
“She should have died hereafter; there would have been a time
for such a word”; and then the messenger enters. I should like a
soliloquy here, about twenty or thirty lines, if possible in rhyme,
in any case ending with a tag. I should like it to be about Lady
Macbeth. Macbeth might have something touching to say about their
happy domestic life, and the early days of their marriage. He might
refer to their courtship. I must have something to make Macbeth
sympathetic, otherwise the public won’t stand it. He might say his
better-half had left him, and then he might refer to her beauty. The
speech might begin:
O dearest chuck, it is unkind indeed
To leave me in the midst of my sore need.
Or something of the kind. In any case it ought to rhyme. Could I have
that written at once, and then we could rehearse it?
THE PRODUCER. Certainly, certainly, Mr. Burbage. Will you write it
yourself, Mr. Shakespeare, or shall we get some one else to do it?
THE AUTHOR. I’ll do it myself if some one will read my part.
THE PRODUCER. Let me see; I forget what is your part.
THE STAGE MANAGER. Mr. Shakespeare is playing Seyton. (_Aside._) We
cast him for Duncan, but he wasn’t up to it.
THE PRODUCER. Mr. Kydd, will you read Mr. Shakespeare’s part?
BANQUO. Certainly.
THE PRODUCER. Please let us have that speech, Mr. Shakespeare, as
quickly as possible. (_Aside._) Don’t make it too long. Ten lines at
the most.
THE AUTHOR (_aside_). Is it absolutely necessary that it should rhyme?
THE PRODUCER (_aside_). No, of course not; that’s Burbage’s fad.
[_Exit the_ AUTHOR _into the wings._
MR. BURBAGE. I should like to go through the fight first.
THE PRODUCER. Very well, Mr. Burbage.
THE STAGE MANAGER. Macduff--Mr. Foote----
MACDUFF. I’m here.
MR. BURBAGE. I’ll give you the cue:
“Why should I play the fool and like a Roman
Die on my sword, while there is life, there’s hope,
The gashes are for them.”
MACDUFF. “Turn, hell hound, turn.”
MR. BURBAGE. I don’t think Macduff ought to call Macbeth a hell hound.
THE PRODUCER. What do you suggest?
MR. BURBAGE. I should suggest: “False Monarch, turn.” It’s more
dignified.
MACDUFF. I would rather say “hell hound.”
THE PRODUCER. Supposing we made it “King of Hell.”
MR. BURBAGE. I don’t think that would do.
THE PRODUCER. Then we must leave it for the present.
MACDUFF. “Turn, hell hound, turn.”
[_They begin to fight with wooden swords._
THE STAGE MANAGER. You don’t begin to fight till Macduff says “Give
thee out.”
MR. BURBAGE. I think we might run those two speeches into one, and I
might say:
“Of all men I would have avoided thee,
But come on now, although my soul is charged
With blood of thine, I’ll have no further words.
My voice is in my sword.”
Then Macduff could say:
“O bloodier villain than terms can well express.”
THE PRODUCER. We must consult the author about that.
MR. BURBAGE. We’ll do the fencing without words first.
[_They begin to fight again._ MACDUFF _gives_
MR. BURBAGE _a tremendous blow on the
shoulder._
MR. BURBAGE. Oh! oh! That’s my rheumatic shoulder. Please be a little
more careful, Mr. Foote. You know I’ve got no padding. I can’t go on
rehearsing now. I am very seriously hurt indeed.
MACDUFF. I’m sure I’m very sorry. It was entirely an accident.
MR. BURBAGE. I’m afraid I must go home. I don’t feel up to it.
THE STAGE MANAGER. I’ll send for some ointment. Please be more
careful, Mr. Foote. Couldn’t you possibly see your way to take Scene
III., Mr. Burbage?
MR. BURBAGE. I know Scene III. backwards. However, I’ll just run
through my speech.
THE STAGE MANAGER. What? “This push will cheer me ever”?
MR. BURBAGE (_peevishly_). No, not that one. You know that’s all
right. That tricky speech about medicine. Give me the cue.
THE STAGE MANAGER. “That keep her from her rest.”
MR. BURBAGE. “Cure her of that:
Canst thou not minister to a sickly mind,
Pull from the memory a booted sorrow,
Rub out the troubles of the busy brain,
And with a sweet and soothing antidote
Clean the stiff bosom of that dangerous poison
Which weighs upon the heart?”
There, you see, word-perfect. What did I say?
THE STAGE MANAGER. Yes, yes, Mr. Burbage. Here’s Mr. Shakespeare.
THE AUTHOR. I’ve written that speech. Shall I read it?
THE PRODUCER. Please.
MR. SHAKESPEARE (_reads_). “To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
MR. BURBAGE. Well, you don’t expect me to say that, I suppose. It’s a
third too short. There’s not a single rhyme in it. It’s got nothing
to do with the situation, and it’s an insult to the stage. “Struts
and frets” indeed! I see there’s nothing left for me but to throw up
the part. You can get any one you please to play Macbeth. One thing
is quite certain, I won’t.
[_Exit_ MR. BURBAGE _in a passion._
THE STAGE MANAGER (_to the_ AUTHOR). Now you’ve done it.
THE AUTHOR (_to the_ PRODUCER). You said it needn’t rhyme.
THE PRODUCER. It’s Macduff. It was all your fault, Mr. Foote.
LADY MACBETH. Am I to wear a fair wig or a dark wig?
THE PRODUCER. Oh! I don’t know.
THE AUTHOR. Dark, if you please. People are always saying I’m making
portraits. So, if you’re dark, nobody can say I meant the character
for the Queen or for Mistress Mary Fytton.
THE STAGE MANAGER. It’s no good going on now. It’s all up--it’s all
up.
CURTAIN.
VIII
THE BLUE HARLEQUIN
(WITH APOLOGIES TO MR. MAETERLINCK)
SCENE.--_A London street; the houses are scarcely visible in the
diaphanous mist. On the right, darkling, is a sausage shop; on
the left a green-grocer’s. The shop windows glimmer like opals._
_Enter a_ POLICEMAN. _He is dressed in a cerulean tunic, and his
truncheon is transparent and glows like a beryl._
THE POLICEMAN. It was not on my beat. It was not on my beat.
_Enter the_ PANTALOON. _He is very old_
THE PANTALOON. I am very old. I am so old that I cannot remember
things. I cannot remember names.
THE POLICEMAN. Move on.
THE PANTALOON. I am always moving on. I feel like a sea-gull.
THE POLICEMAN. Move on. I have already told you to move on.
THE PANTALOON. He told me to move on. He said I would be obliged to
move on. I am so old that I forget what they say to me.
THE POLICEMAN. Your beard is like grass. It is like the grass that
grows over men’s graves. I do not like your beard.
THE PANTALOON. You have no beard. Your face is smooth. It has a hole
on one side of it like a cheese. The moon has a hole on one side of
it It is foggy in the street. The fog is shivering.
[_Pointing to the door of the sausage shop._
Behind that door there is no fog.
THE POLICEMAN. Nobody has ever opened that door. The key of that door
is lost. The lock is broken. It is a useless door.
THE PANTALOON. Years ago that door had a key. There was a little red
stain on the key. It wanted cleaning.
THE POLICEMAN. It was a rusty key.
THE PANTALOON. It was a latch-key.
THE POLICEMAN. It was lost on a Thursday.
THE PANTALOON. On the Friday they came to clean the key, but it was
too dark to clean it.
THE POLICEMAN. On Saturday morning there was no time. On Saturday
afternoon the shops were shut.
THE PANTALOON. The shops were shut all Sunday.
THE POLICEMAN. Monday was Bank Holiday. They went away on Monday.
THE PANTALOON. It rained all day on Monday. It poured with rain. The
rain was damp. It had come from a damp place. It was wet rain.
THE POLICEMAN. They told me he was wanted.
THE PANTALOON. They asked me what time it was. I said: “I am so old I
have forgotten what time it is. I cannot remember things.”
THE POLICEMAN. They came back on Monday night. When they came back
they had forgotten all about the key.
THE PANTALOON. I said if you want to know what time it is you must
ask the policeman. The policeman knows.
THE POLICEMAN. He knows.
THE PANTALOON. What time is it?
THE POLICEMAN. It is seven minutes to five. It will soon be five
minutes to five.
THE PANTALOON. She goes out at five, every day, for a walk.
THE POLICEMAN. She will walk through the fog at five. She is sure to
come. I am certain she will come.
THE PANTALOON. She will tell him he is wanted.
THE POLICEMAN. If he comes on to my beat I will take him up.
THE PANTALOON. He will never come on to your beat.
_Enter the_ CLOWN _with a red-hot poker,
which shines like a carbuncle_
THE CLOWN. It is strange that we should meet here again. We always
meet at the same place and at the same hour.
THE PANTALOON. I am so old I had forgotten I should meet you. When
you walked down the street I thought you were someone else. I thought
I had never seen you before.
THE CLOWN. It is so foggy in the street and my poker is getting cold.
THE PANTALOON. If you put it in the fire it will get warm again.
THE CLOWN. There is no fire in the street. The policeman says we may
not light a fire in the street. It is dangerous. It frightens the
people.
THE PANTALOON. Last time they lit a fire in the street it was the 5th
of November.
THE CLOWN. The policeman was not there on the 5th of November.
THE PANTALOON. It was not on his beat.
THE CLOWN. His beat is far away--on the sand.
THE PANTALOON. There is a cave near his beat.
THE CLOWN. There is a public-house near his beat. There is a
public-house quite close to his beat. It has two doors.
THE PANTALOON. One is marked “Public.” He never opens that door.
THE CLOWN. The other is marked “Private.” He opens it and it swings
backwards and forwards.
THE PANTALOON. The people inside complain of the draught. They are
always complaining.