Diminutive dramas

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.

The Clown. She waits for him on the other side the railings.

The Pantaloon. The railings are very strong. They are black railings. They are in front of the area. She hands things to him through the railings. She gives him things to eat and things to drink.

The Clown. It is on his beat.

The Pantaloon. No, it is not on his beat, but it is quite close to his beat. Your poker has got cold.

The Clown. I will warm it. I will warm it on the back of the policeman. He has a broad back.

[He rubs the Policeman with the poker.

The Policeman. That poker is warm. It is much warmer than you think it is. (The Clown rubs him again.) When you do that I feel strange. I feel as if a ruby were burning near me.

The Clown. I am warming you with my poker. It is good to be warm. It is so cold in this street. It never used to be so cold. It is foggy. The fog makes me hungry and thirsty. I am so hungry that I would like to eat a sausage.

The Pantaloon. I am so hungry that I would like to eat many sausages, first one and then another. I could eat six sausages.

The Clown. Let us go and take some sausages. There are some sausages hanging in that shop. I cannot see them through the fog, but I know there are some sausages there.

The Pantaloon. I can see the sausages. They are all huddled together like pigeons.

The Clown. They are close together like little wood-pigeons. I like sausages. But before we go I will warm the policeman. He is so cold.

The Pantaloon. It is not on his beat.

[The Clown rubs the Policeman with his poker.

The Policeman. When you do that I feel as if this had happened before. I feel as if I were in a strange room full of doors and lighted candles. I do not like the feeling.

[The Pantaloon and the Clown go into the sausage shop.

Enter Columbine

Columbine. I had nine sisters. They were all blind, and they were all born on a Friday. Friday is an unlucky day.

The Policeman. I have been waiting for you. I thought you had gone to him. He is wanted. I thought you had gone to tell him he is wanted.

Columbine. You never will find him.

The Policeman. I have been looking for him since Wednesday. I am tired of looking. It was not on my beat.

Columbine. You will never find him. He knows you are looking for him. When he sees you coming round the corner of the street he runs away round the other corner. He runs quicker than you. Nobody runs so quickly as he does.

The Policeman. I saw the end of his wand yesterday. It was quite white. It was as white as the milk in the pails.

Columbine. The milk in the pails is not always white. Sometimes it is yellow. But his wand is white. He hits people with it and he runs away. He runs so fast nobody can catch him.

The Policeman. I saw the spangles of his clothes the day before yesterday. They were all gold. I looked again and I thought they were silver spangles. I thought his clothes were red at first. Afterwards they seemed to be green as leaves in the orchard they cut down.

Columbine. Why did they cut it down?

The Policeman. Because it was green. There are too many green orchards.

Columbine. He changes his clothes so quickly nobody knows what he has got on.

The Policeman. His clothes are like the scales of fishes. They are like the scales of grey fishes in the old pond. The old pond is full of fishes. It ought to be dredged.

Columbine. Nobody will ever dredge the old pond. The children fish in it.

The Policeman. His clothes are like the wings of birds. Like the wings of owls, that fly about in the tower, hooting. The tower is full of owls. It ought to be pulled down.

Columbine. Nobody will ever pull down the tower. The owls kill the mice.

The Policeman. His clothes are like red sparks. Like the sparks that fly from the horses’ hoofs in the crooked lane. The crooked lane is full of horses. It ought to be made into a field.

Columbine. It will never be made into a field. Too many people use the crooked lane. It leads to the mill. It is the shortest way to the mill.

The Policeman. His clothes are like the blue pebbles the old women drop into the stream. The stream is full of pebbles. It ought to be dried up.

Columbine. It will never be dried up, because the old women wash their clothes in it. It is not pebbles they throw into it. It is blue from the blue-bag. They throw it in to whiten the linen.

The Policeman. I do not know. It is not on my beat. Some people say it is pebbles. Their linen is all in holes. It is frayed linen.

Columbine. His linen is never frayed.

The Policeman. His clothes hide his linen. You cannot tell what colour his clothes are. Sometimes they are blue and sometimes they are red.

Columbine. Some people say they are grey clothes—grey like the sand.

The Policeman. They told me they were blue. I am sure his clothes are blue.

Enter the Clown through the window

The Clown. I would have brought you some sausages. I would have brought you a hundred sausages. They are made of pork. The pig was killed on a Friday.

Columbine. Everything always happens on a Friday. I was born on a Friday.

The Clown. I would have brought you more sausages than I can eat myself. I would have brought you more sausages than you can eat.

The Policeman. Nobody can eat more than a certain amount of sausages. That is why they are so sad in this street. I can eat a great many sausages.

Columbine. It is a bad thing to eat too many sausages.

The Clown. It is not right to go into a shop, to take away the sausages, and to eat them. The shopkeeper called him a thief because he took away the sausages.

The Policeman. It is not on my beat.

Columbine. He was very hungry.

The Clown. He had no right to take away all the sausages. There were none left for us. If he had not taken away all the sausages I could have brought them to you. He jumped down the chimney. It was cleaned yesterday. He took away all the sausages. He took away the sausages I would have brought you. I had meant to bring them all.

The Policeman. What colour were his clothes?

The Clown. I was so frightened when he took away the sausages that I did not notice the colour of his clothes. I think they were red clothes.

The Policeman. Were they not blue clothes?

The Clown. They may have been blue clothes. He jumped down the chimney and drew out his knife. It was a steel knife, and there were spots on the blade. He cut the string of the sausages from the ceiling. They were all huddled together in the ceiling like birds ... like birds in the winter.

Enter the Pantaloon

The Pantaloon. He has taken away all the sausages. I was going to bring you sausages to eat. They were hanging from the roof like little fat mice. But I am so old—I forget things. Then he came with his knife and cut them down. You must take him up. He has stolen the sausages. They were not his sausages.

The Policeman. It is not on my beat. What colour were his clothes?

The Pantaloon. I am so old I forget things. I think they were green clothes.

The Policeman. Were they not blue clothes?

The Clown (to the Policeman). You are so cold. I will warm you with my poker. It is a red-hot poker.

The Policeman. Whenever you do that I feel strange.

[The Clown rubs him with the poker.

The Policeman. I will take away your poker. I do not like to be made to feel strange so often.

[The Clown runs away and jumps through the shop window. The Policeman runs after him. At that moment the Harlequin—he is all blue—darts round the street corner and runs off with Columbine.

The Policeman. He has run away with her. They said he would come when I was not looking. I shall never catch him. His clothes were blue. (To the Pantaloon) I will take you up instead. I will say you took the sausages. I will not speak the truth. You will speak the truth. You will say he took the sausages. But they will not believe you. They will believe me. Now you shall come with me, along.

The Pantaloon. I am so old. I feel as if all this had happened before.

The Policeman. I will say it was on my beat.

[As he leads off the Pantaloon, the Clown jumps out of the window and hits him with the red-hot poker.

The Policeman. Whenever he does that I feel strange.

[The Pantaloon escapes and fades into the fog.

Curtain.