One-Act Plays Part 29

PIERRETTE. She was made up!

PIERROT. I'm sure she was not. And how do you know? You didn't see her.

PIERRETTE. Perhaps I _did_ see her.

PIERROT. Now, look here, Pierrette, it's no good your being jealous.

When you and I took on this show business, we arranged to be just partners and nothing more. If I see anyone I want to marry, I shall marry 'em. And if you see anyone who wants to marry you, _you_ can marry 'em.

PIERRETTE. I'm not jealous! It's absurd!

PIERROT [_singing abstractedly_].

"Baby, don't wait for the moon, She has scratched her white chin on the gorse; And mellow and musical June Is bringing the cuckoo remorse."

PIERRETTE. Did you see that girl after the show?

PIERROT. No. She had slipped away in the crowd. Here, I've had enough tea. I shall go out and try to find her.

PIERRETTE. Why don't you stay in by the fire? You could help me to darn the socks.

PIERROT. Don't try to chaff me. Darning, indeed! I hope life has got something better in it than darning.

PIERRETTE. I doubt it. It's pretty much the same all the world over.

First we wear holes in our socks, and then we mend them. The wise ones are those who make the best of it, and darn as well as they can.

PIERROT. I say, that gives me an idea for a song.

PIERRETTE. Out with it, then.

PIERROT. Well, I haven't exactly formed it yet. This is what flashed through my mind as you spoke: [_He runs up on to the table, using it as a stage._]

"Life's a ball of worsted, Unwind it if you can, You who oft have boasted

[_He pauses for a moment, then hurriedly, in order to gloss over the false accenting._]

That you are a man."

Of course that's only a rough idea.

PIERRETTE. Are you going to sing it at the show?

PIERROT [_jumping down from the table_]. You're always so lukewarm. A man of artistic ideas is as sensitively skinned as a baby.

PIERRETTE. Do stay in, Pierrot. It's so cold outside.

PIERROT. You want me to listen to you grumbling, I suppose.

PIERRETTE. Just now you said I was always cheerful.

PIERROT. There you are; girding at me again.

PIERRETTE. I'm sorry, Pierrot. But the market-place is dreadfully wet, and your shoes are awfully thin.

PIERROT. I tell you I will not stop in. I'm going out to find that girl. How do I know she isn't the very woman of my dreams?

PIERRETTE. Why are you always trying to picture an ideal woman?

PIERROT. Don't _you ever_ picture an ideal man?

PIERRETTE. No, I try to be practical.

PIERROT. Women are so unimaginative! They are such pathetic, motherly things, and when they feel extra motherly they say, "I'm in love." All that is so sordid and petty. I want a woman I can set on a pedestal, and just look up at her and love her.

PIERRETTE [_speaking very fervently_].

"Pierrot, don't wait for the moon, There's a heart chilling cold in her rays; And mellow and musical June Will only last thirty short days."

PIERROT. Oh, I should never make you understand! Well, I'm off. [_As he goes out, he sings, sidelong, over his shoulder in a mocking tone, "Baby, don't wait for the moon." PIERRETTE listens for a moment to his voice dying away in the distance. Then she moves to the fire-place, and begins to stir the fire. As she kneels there, the words of an old recitation form on her lips. Half unconsciously she recites it again to an audience of laughing flames and glowing, thoughtful coals._]

"There lives a maid in the big, wide world, By the crowded town and mart, And people sigh as they pa.s.s her by; They call her Hungry Heart.

For there trembles that on her red rose lip That never her tongue can say, And her eyes are sad, and she is not glad In the beautiful calm of day.

Deep down in the waters of pure, clear thought, The mate of her fancy lies; Sleeping, the night is made fair by his light Sweet kiss on her dreaming eyes.

Though a man was made in the wells of time Who could set her soul on fire, Her life unwinds, and she never finds This love of her heart's desire.

If you meet this maid of a hopeless love, Play not a meddler's part.

Silence were best; let her keep in her breast The dream of her hungry heart."

[_Overcome by tears, she hides her face in her hands. A slow, treble knock comes on the door; PIERRETTE looks up wonderingly. Again the knock sounds._]

PIERRETTE. Come in. [_The door swings slowly open, as though of its own accord, and without, on the threshold, is seen THE MANUFACTURER, standing full in the moonlight. He is a curious, though kindly-looking, old man, and yet, with all his years, he does not appear to be the least infirm. He is the sort of person that children take to instinctively. He wears a quaintly cut, bottle-green coat, with silver b.u.t.tons and large side-pockets, which almost hide his knee-breeches. His shoes have large buckles and red heels. He is exceedingly unlike a prosperous manufacturer, and, but for the absence of a violin, would be mistaken for a village fiddler. Without a word he advances into the room, and, again of its own accord, the door closes noiselessly behind him._]

PIERRETTE [_jumping up and moving towards him_]. Oh, I'm so sorry. I ought to have opened the door when you knocked.

MANUFACTURER. That's all right. I'm used to opening doors. And yours opens much more easily than some I come across. Would you believe it, some people positively nail their doors up, and it's no good knocking.

But there, you're wondering who I am.

PIERRETTE. I was wondering if you were hungry.

MANUFACTURER. Ah, a woman's instinct. But, thank you, no. I am a small eater; I might say a very small eater. A smile or a squeeze of the hand keeps me going admirably.

PIERRETTE. At least you'll sit down and make yourself at home.

MANUFACTURER [_moving to the settle_]. Well, I have a habit of making myself at home everywhere. In fact, most people think you can't make a _home_ without _me_. May I put my feet on the fender? It's an old habit of mine. I always do it.

PIERRETTE. They say round here: