Satan: For that rare spirit I would have the gaud you wear, that emblem, that bright ornament. In return I offer you——
Antoninus: Begone——
Satan: I offer you——
Antoninus: Begone.
Satan: I offer you—Youth.
Antoninus: I will not traffic with you in damnation.
Satan: I do not ask your soul,only that shining gaud.
Antoninus: Such things are not for hell.
Satan: I offer you Youth.
Antoninus: I do not need it. Life is a penance and ordained as a tribulation. I have come through by striving. Why should I care to strive again?
Satan(smiles): Why?
Antoninus: Why should I?
Satan(laughs, looking through window): It's spring, brother, is it not?
Antoninus: A time for meditation.
Satan(laughs): There are girls coming over the hills, brother. Through the green leaves and the May.
[Antoninusdraws his scourge from his robe.
Antoninus: Up! Let me scourge them from our holy place.
Satan: Wait, brother, they are far off yet. But you would not scourge them, you would not scourge them, they are so ... Ah! one has torn her dress!
Antoninus: Ah, let me scourge her!
Satan: No, no, brother. See, I can see her ankle through the rent. You would not scourge her. Your great scourge would break that little ankle.
Antoninus: I will have my scourge ready, if she comes near our holy place.
Satan: She is with her comrades. They are maying. Seven girls. (Antoninusgrips his scourge.) Her arms are full of may.
Antoninus: Speak not of such things. Speak not, I say.
[Satanis leaning leisurely against the wall, smiling through the window.
Satan: How the leaves are shining. Now she is seated on the grass. They have gathered small flowers, Antoninus, and put them in her hair, a row of primroses.
Antoninus(his eyes go for a moment on to far, far places. Unintentionally): What colour?
Satan: Black.
Antoninus: No, no, no! I did not mean her hair. No, no. I meant the flowers.
Satan: Yellow, Antoninus.
Antoninus(flurried): Ah, of course, yes, yes.
Satan: Sixteen and seventeen and fifteen, and another of sixteen. All young girls. The age for you, Antoninus, if I make you twenty. Just the age for you.
Antoninus: You—you cannot.
Satan: All things are possible unto me except salvation.
Antoninus: How?
Satan: Give me your gaud. Then meet me at any hour between star-shining and cock-crow under the big cherry tree, when the moon is waning.
Antoninus: Never.
Satan: Ah, Spring, Spring. They are dancing. Such nimble ankles.
[Antoninusraises his scourge.
Satan(more gravely): Think, Antoninus, forty or fifty more Springs.
Antoninus: Never, never, never.
Satan: And no more striving next time. See Antoninus, see them as they dance, there with the may behind them under the hill.
Antoninus: Never! I will not look.
Satan: Ah, look at them, Antoninus. Their sweet figures. And the warm wind blowing in Spring.
Antoninus: Never! My scourge is for such.
[Satansighs. The girls laugh from the hill.Antoninushears the laughter.
A look of fear comes over him.
Antoninus: Which ... (a little peal of girlish laughter off). Which cherry tree did you speak of?
Satan: This one over the window.
Antoninus(with an effort): It shall be held accursed. I will warn the brethren. It shall be cut down and hewn asunder and they shall burn it utterly.
Satan(rather sorrowfully): Ah, Antoninus.
Antoninus: You shall not tempt a monk of our blessed order.
Satan: They are coming this way, Antoninus.
Antoninus: What! What!
Satan: Have your scourge ready, Antoninus.
Antoninus: Perhaps, perhaps they have not merited extreme chastisement.
Satan: They have made a garland of may, a long white garland drooped from their little hands. Ah, if you were young, Antoninus.
Antoninus: Tempt me not, Satan. I say, tempt me not!
[The girls sing,Satansmiles, the girls sing on.Antoninustip-toes to seat, back to window, and sits listening. The girls sing on. They pass the window and shake the branch of a cherry tree. The petals fall in sheets past the window. The girls sing on andAntoninussits listening.
Antoninus(hand to forehead): My head aches. I think it is that song.... Perhaps, perhaps it is the halo. Too heavy, too heavy forus.
[Satanwalks gently up and removes it and walks away with the gold disc.Antoninussits silent.
Satan: When the moon is waning.
[Exit. More petals fall past the window. The song rings on.Antoninussits quite still, on his face a new ecstacy.
Jergins,an old waiter.
Mr. Trundleben,Secretary of the Club.
Mr. Gleek,Editor of the "Banner and Evening Gazette" and member of the Olympus.
A room in the Olympus Club.
Time: After luncheon.
Sir Webley Woothery-JurnipandMr. Neekssit by a small table. Further away sitsMr. Gleek,the Editor of the "Banner and Evening Gazette."Sir Webley Jurniprises and rings the bell by the fire-place. He returns to his seat.
Mr. Neeks: I see there's a man called Mr. William Shakespeare putting up for the Club.
Sir Webley: Shakespeare? Shakespeare? Shakespeare? I once knew a man called Shaker.
Neeks: No, it's Shakespeare—Mr. William Shakespeare.
Sir Webley: Shakespeare? Shakespeare? Doyouknow anything about him?
Neeks: Well, I don't exactly recall—I made sure that you——
Sir Webley: The Secretary ought to be more careful. Waiter!
Jergins: Yes, Sir Webley. [He comes.
Sir Webley: Coffee, Jergins. Same as usual.
Jergins: Yes, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: And, Jergins—there's a man called Mr. William Shakespeare putting up for the Club.
Jergins: I'm sorry to hear that, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: Yes, Jergins. Well, there it is, you see; and I want you to go up and ask Mr. Trundleben if he'd come down.
Jergins: Certainly, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: And then get my coffee.
Jergins: Yes, Sir Webley.
[He goes slowly away.
Neeks: He'll be able to tell us all about him.
Sir Webley: At the same time he should be more careful.
Neeks: I'm afraid—I'm afraid he's getting rather, rather old.
Sir Webley: Oh, I don't know, he was seventy only the other day. I don't call that too old—nowadays. He can't be now, he can't be more than, let me see, seventy-eight. Where does this Mr. Shaker live?
Neeks: Shakespeare. Somewhere down in Warwickshire. A village called Bradford, I think, is the address he gives in the Candidates' Book.
Sir Webley: Warwickshire! I do seem to remember something about him now. If he's the same man I certainly do. William Shakespeare, you said.
Neeks: Yes, that's the name.
Sir Webley: Well, I certainly have heard about him now you mention it.
Neeks: Really! And what does he do?
Sir Webley: Do? Well, from what I heard he poaches.
Neeks: Poaches!
Sir Webley: Yes, a poacher. Trundleben deserves to get the sack for this. A poacher from the wilds of Warwickshire. I heard all about him. He got after the deer at Charlecote.
Neeks: A poacher!
Sir Webley: That's all he is, a poacher. A member of the Olympus! He'll be dropping in here one fine day with other people's rabbits in his pockets.
[EnterJergins.
Jergins: Your coffee, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: My coffee. I should think so. (He sips it.) One needs it.
Jergins: Mr. Trundleben will be down at once, Sir Webley. I telephoned up to him.
Sir Webley: Telephoned! Telephoned! The Club's getting more full of new-fangled devices every day. I remember the time when—— Thank you, Jergins.
[Jerginsretires.
This is a pretty state of things, Neeks.
Neeks: A pretty state of things indeed, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: Ah, here's Trundleben.
Neeks: He'll tell us all about it, Sir Webley. I'm sure he'll——
Sir Webley: Ah, Trundleben. Come and sit down here. Come and——
Trundleben: Thank you, Sir Webley. I think I will. I don't walk quite as well as I used, and what with——
Sir Webley: What's all this we hear about this Mr. Shakespeare, Trundleben?
Trundleben: Oh, ah, well yes, yes indeed. Well, you see, Sir Webley, he was put up for the Club. Mr. Henry put him up.
Sir Webley(disapprovingly): Oh, Mr. Henry.
Neeks: Yes, yes, yes. Long hair and all that.
Sir Webley: I'm afraid so.
Neeks: Writes poetry, I believe.
Sir Webley: I'm afraid so.
Trundleben: Well then, what does Mr. Newton do but go and second him, and there you are, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: Yes, a pretty state of things. Has he ... Does he ... What is he?
Trundleben: He seems to write, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: Oh, he does, does he? What does he write?
Trundleben: Well, I wrote and asked him that, Sir Webley, andhesaid plays.
Sir Webley: Plays? Plays? Plays? I'm sure I never heard ... What plays?
Trundleben: I asked him that, Sir Webley, and he said ... he sent me a list (fumbling). Ah, here it is.
[He holds it high, far from his face, tilts his head back and looks down his nose through his glasses.
He says—let me see—"Hamelt," or "Hamlet," I don't know how he pronounces it. "Hamelt, Hamlet"; he spells it "H-a-m-l-e-t." If you pronounce it the way one pronounces handle, it would be "Hamelt," but if——
Sir Webley: What's it all about?
Trundleben: Well, I gathered the scene was in Denmark.
Neeks: Denmark! H'm! another of those neutrals!
Sir Webley: Well, I wouldn't so much mind where the scene of the play was put, if only it was a play one ever had heard of.
Neeks: But those men who have much to do with neutrals are rather the men—don't you think, Sir Webley?—who ...
Sir Webley: Who want watching. I believe you're right, Neeks. And that type of unsuccessful play-wright is just the kind of man I always rather ...
Neeks: That's rather what I feel, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: It wouldn't be a bad plan if we told somebody about him.
Neeks: I think I know just the man, Sir Webley. I'll just drop him a line.
Sir Webley: Yes, and if he's all right there's no harm done, but I always suspect that kind of fellow. Well, what else, Trundleben? This is getting interesting.
Trundleben: Well, Sir Webley, it's really very funny, but he sent me a list of the characters in this play of his, "Hamelt," and, and it's really rather delicious——
Neeks: Yes?
Sir Webley: Yes? What is it?
Trundleben: He's got aghostin his play. (He-he-he-he-he) A ghost! He really has.
Sir Webley: What! Not on the stage?
Trundleben: Yes, on the stage!
Neeks: Well, well, well.
Sir Webley: But that's absurd.
Trundleben: I met Mr. Vass the other day—it was his four hundredth presentation of "The Nighty"—and I told him about it. He said that bringing a ghost on the stage was, of course—er—ludicrous.
Sir Webley: What else does he say he's done?
Trundleben: Er—er—there's an absurdly long list—er—"Macbeth."
Sir Webley: "Macbeth." That's Irish.
Neeks: Ah, yes. Abbey Theatre style of thing.
Trundleben: I think I heard he offered it them. But of course——
Sir Webley: No, quite so.
Trundleben: I gathered it was all rather a—rather a sordid story.
Sir Webley(solemnly): Ah!
[Neeks5with equal solemnity wags his head.
Trundleben(focussing his list again): Here's a very funny one. This is funnier than "Hamlet." "The Tempest." And the stage directions are "The sea, with a ship."
Sir Webley(laughs): Oh, that's lovely! That's really too good. The sea with a ship! And what's it all about?
Trundleben: Well, I rather gathered that it was about a magician, and he—he makes a storm.
Sir Webley: He makes a storm. Splendid! On the stage, I suppose.
Trundleben: Oh yes, on the stage.
[Sir WebleyandNeeks6laugh heartily.
Neeks: He'd ... He'd have to be a magician for that, wouldn't he?
Sir Webley: Ha, ha! Very good! He'd have to be a magician to do that, Trundleben.
Trundleben: Yes, indeed, Sir Webley; indeed he would, Mr. Neeks.
Sir Webley: But that stage direction is priceless. I'd really like to copy that down if you'd let me. What is it? "The sea with a ship"? It's the funniest bit of the lot.
Trundleben: Yes, that's it, Sir Webley. Wait a moment, I have it here. The—the whole thing is "the sea with a ship, afterwards an island." Very funny indeed.
Sir Webley: "Afterwards an island"! That's very good, too. "Afterwards an island." I'll put that down also. (He writes.) And what else, Trundleben? What else?
[Trundlebenholds out his list again.
Trundleben: "The Tragedy of—of King Richard the—the Second."
Sir Webley: Butwashis life a tragedy?Wasit a tragedy, Neeks?
Neeks: I—I—well I'm not quite sure; I really don't think so. But I'll look it up.
Sir Webley: Yes, we can look it up.
Trundleben: I think it was rather—perhapsrathertragic, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: Oh, I don't say it wasn't. No doubt. No doubt at all. That's one thing. But to call his whole life a tragedy is—is quite another. What, Neeks?
Neeks: Oh, quite another.
Trundleben: Oh, certainly, Sir Webley. Tragedy is—er—is a very strong term indeed, to—to apply to such a case.
Sir Webley: He was probably out poaching when he should have been learning his history.
Trundleben: I'm afraid so, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: And what else, eh? Anything more?
Trundleben: Well, there are some poems, he says.
[Holds up a list.
Sir Webley: And what are they about?
Trundleben: Well, there's one called ... Oh. I'd really rather not mention that one; perhaps that had better be left out altogether.
Neeks: Not...?
Sir Webley: Not quite...?
Trundleben: No, not at all.
Sir WebleyandNeeks: H'm.
Trundleben: Left out altogether. And then there are "Sonnets," and—and "Venus and Adonis," and—and "The Phœnix and the Turtle."
Sir Webley: The Phœnix and the what?
Trundleben: The Turtle.
Sir Webley: Oh. Go on ...
Trundleben: One called "The Passionate Pilgrim," another "A Lover's Complaint."
Sir Webley: I think the whole thing's very regrettable.
Neeks: I think so too, Sir Webley.
Trundleben(mournfully): And there've been no poets since poor Browning died, none at all. It's absurd for him to call himself a poet.
Neeks: Quite so, Trundleben, quite so.
Sir Webley: And all these plays. What does he mean by calling them plays? They've never been acted.
Trundleben: Well—er—no, not exactly acted, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: What do you mean by not exactly, Trundleben?
Trundleben: Well, I believe they were acted in America, though of course not in London.
Sir Webley: In America? What's that got to do with it. America? Why, that's the other side of the Atlantic.
Trundleben: Oh, yes, Sir Webley, I—I quite agree with you.
Sir Webley: America! I daresay they did. I daresay they did act them. But that doesn't make him a suitable member for the Olympus. Quite the contrary.
Neeks: Oh, quite the contrary.
Trundleben: Oh, certainly, Sir Webley, certainly.
Sir Webley: I daresay "Macbeth" would be the sort of thing that would appeal to Irish Americans.Justthe sort of thing.
Trundleben: Very likely, Sir Webley, I'm sure.
Sir Webley: Their game laws are very lax, I believe, over there; they probably took to him on account of his being a poacher.
Trundleben: I've no doubt of it, Sir Webley. Very likely.
Neeks: I expect that was just it.
Sir Webley: Well now, Trundleben; are we to ask the Olympus to elect a man who'll come in here with his pockets bulging with rabbits.
Neeks: Rabbits, and hares too.
Sir Webley: And venison even, if you come to that.
Trundleben: Yes indeed, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: Thank God the Olympus can get its haunch of venison without having to go to a man like that for it.
Neeks: Yes indeed.
Trundleben: Indeed I hope so.
Sir Webley: Well now, about those plays. I don't say we've absolute proof that the man's entirely hopeless. We must be sure of our ground.
Neeks: Yes, quite so.
Trundleben: Oh, I'm afraid Sir Webley, they're very bad indeed. There are some quite unfortunate—er—references in them.
Sir Webley: So I should have supposed. So I should have supposed.
Neeks: Yes, yes, of course.
Trundleben: For instance, in that play about that funny ship—I have a list of the characters here—and I'm afraid, well—er,—er you see for yourself. (Hands paper.) You see that is, I am afraid, in very bad taste, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: Certainly, Trundleben, certainly. Very bad indeed.
Neeks(peering): Er—er, what is it, Sir Webley?
Sir Webley(pointing): That, you see.
Neeks: A—a drunken butler! But most regrettable.
Sir Webley: A very deserving class. A—a quite gratuitous slight. I don't say you mightn't see one drunken butler ...
Trundleben: Quite so.
Neeks: Yes, of course.
Sir Webley: But to put it boldly on a programme like that is practically tantamount to implying that all butlers are drunken.
Trundleben: Which is by no means true.
Sir Webley: There would naturally be a protest of some sort, and to have a member of the Olympus mixed up with a controversy like that would be—er—naturally—er—most ...
Trundleben: Yes, of course, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: And then of course, if he does a thing like that once ...
Neeks: There are probably other lapses just as deplorable.
Trundleben: I haven't gone through his whole list, Sir Webley. I often feel about these modern writers that perhaps the less one looks the less one will find that might be, er ...
Sir Webley: Yes, quite so.
Neeks: That is certainly true.
Sir Webley: Well, we can't wade all through his list of characters to see if they are all suitable to be represented on a stage.
Trundleben: Oh no, Sir Webley, quite impossible; there are—there are—I might say—hundreds of them.
Sir Webley: Good gracious! He must have been wasting his time a great deal.
Trundleben: Oh, a great deal, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: But we shall have to go further into this. We can't have ...
Neeks: I see Mr. Gleek sitting over there, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: Why, yes, yes, so he is.
Neeks: TheBanner and Evening Gazettewould know all about him if there's anything to know.
Sir Webley: Yes, of course they would.
Neeks: If we were to ask him.
Sir Webley: Well, Trundleben, you may leave it to us. Mr. Neeks and I will talk it all over and see what's to be done.
Trundleben: Thank you, Sir Webley. I'm really very sorry it all happened—very sorry indeed.
Sir Webley: Very well, Trundleben, we'll see what's to be done. If nothing's known of him and his plays, you'll have to write and request him to withdraw his candidature. But we'll see. We'll see.
Trundleben: Thank you, Sir Webley. I'm sure I'm very sorry it all occurred. Thank you, Mr. Neeks.
[ExitTrundleben,waddling slowly away.
Sir Webley: Well, Neeks, that's what it will have to be. If nothing whatever's known of him we can't have him putting up for the Olympus.
Neeks: Quite so, Sir Webley. I'll call Mr. Gleek's attention.
[He begins to rise, hopefully looking Gleek-wards, whenJerginscomes between him andMr. Gleek.He has come to take away the coffee.
Sir Webley: Times are changing, Jergins.
Jergins: I'm afraid so, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: Changing fast, and new members putting up for the Club.
Jergins: Yes, I'm afraid so, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: You notice it too, Jergins.
Jergins: Yes, Sir Webley, it's come all of a sudden. Only last week I saw ...
Sir Webley: Well, Jergins.
Jergins: I saw Lord Pondleburrow wearing a ...
Sir Webley: Wearing what, Jergins?
Jergins: Wearing one of those billycock hats, Sir Webley.
Sir Webley: Well, well. I suppose they've got to change, but not at that rate.
Jergins: No, Sir Webley.
[Exit,shaking his head as he goes.
Sir Webley: Well, we must find out about this fellow.
Neeks: Yes. I'll call Mr. Gleek's attention. He knows all about that sort of thing.
Sir Webley: Yes, yes. Just ...
[Neeksrises and goes some of the way towardsGleek'schair.
Neeks: Er—er——
Gleek(looking round): Yes?
Sir Webley: Do you know anything of a man called Mr. William Shakespeare?
Gleek(looking over his pince-nez): No!
[He shakes his head several times and returns to his paper.
Harry de Reves,a Poet.
(This name, though of course of French origin, has become anglicised and is pronouncedde Reevs.)
Dick Prattle,a Lieutenant-Major of the Royal Horse Marines.
Fame.
The Poet's rooms in London. Windows in back. A high screen in a corner.
Time: February 30th.
ThePoetis sitting at a table writing.
[EnterDick Prattle.
Prattle: Hullo, Harry.
de Reves: Hullo, Dick. Good Lord, where are you from?
Prattle(casually): The ends of the earth.
de Reves: Well, I'm damned!
Prattle: Thought I'd drop in and see how you were getting on.
de Reves: Well, that's splendid. What are you doing in London?
Prattle: Well, I wanted to see if I could get one or two decent ties to wear—you can get nothing out there—then I thought I'd have a look and see how London was getting on.
de Reves: Splendid! How's everybody?
Prattle: All going strong.
de Reves: That's good.
Prattle(seeing paper and ink): But what are you doing?
de Reves: Writing.
Prattle: Writing? I didn't know you wrote.
de Reves: Yes, I've taken to it rather.
Prattle: I say—writing's no good. What do you write?
de Reves: Oh, poetry.
Prattle: Poetry! Good Lord!
de Reves: Yes, that sort of thing, you know.
Prattle: Good Lord! Do you make any money by it?
de Reves: No. Hardly any.
Prattle: I say—why don't you chuck it?
de Reves: Oh, I don't know. Some people seem to like my stuff, rather. That's why I go on.
Prattle: I'd chuck it if there's no money in it.
de Reves: Ah, but then it's hardly in your line, is it? You'd hardly approve of poetry if therewasmoney in it.
Prattle: Oh, I don't say that. If I could make as much by poetry as I can by betting I don't say I wouldn't try the poetry touch, only——
de Reves: Only what?
Prattle: Oh, I don't know. Only there seems more sense in betting, somehow.
de Reves: Well, yes. I suppose it's easier to tell what an earthly horse is going to do, than to tell what Pegasus——
Prattle: What's Pegasus?
de Reves: Oh, the winged horse of poets.
Prattle: I say! You don't believe in a winged horse, do you?
de Reves: In our trade we believe in all fabulous things. They all represent some large truth to us. An emblem like Pegasus is as real a thing to a poet as a Derby winner would be to you.
Prattle: I say. (Give me a cigarette. Thanks.) What? Then you'd believe in nymphs and fauns, and Pan, and all those kind of birds?
de Reves: Yes. Yes. In all of them.
Prattle: Good Lord!
de Reves: You believe in the Lord Mayor of London, don't you?
Prattle: Yes, of course; but what has——
de Reves: Four million people or so made him Lord Mayor, didn't they? And he represents to them the wealth and dignity and tradition of——
Prattle: Yes; but, I say, what has all this——
de Reves: Well, he stands for an idea to them, and they made him Lord Mayor, and so he is one....
Prattle: Well, of course he is.
de Reves: In the same way Pan has been made what he is by millions; by millions to whom he represents world-old traditions.
Prattle(rising from his chair and stepping backwards, laughing and looking at thePoetin a kind of assumed wonder): I say ... I say ... You old heathen ... but Good Lord ...
[He bumps into the high screen behind, pushing it back a little.
de Reves: Look out! Look out!
Prattle: What? What's the matter?
de Reves: The screen!
Prattle: Oh, sorry, yes. I'll put it right.
[He is about to go round behind it.
de Reves: No, don't go round there.
Prattle: What? Why not?
de Reves: Oh, you wouldn't understand.
Prattle: Wouldn't understand? Why, what have you got?
de Reves: Oh, one of those things.... You wouldn't understand.
Prattle: Of course I'd understand. Let's have a look.
[ThePoetwalks towardsPrattleand the screen. He protests no further.Prattlelooks round the corner of the screen.
An altar.
de Reves(removing the screen altogether): That is all. What do you make of it?
[An altar of Greek design, shaped like a pedestal, is revealed. Papers litter the floor all about it.
Prattle: I say—you always were an untidy devil.
de Reves: Well, what do you make of it?
Prattle: It reminds me of your room at Eton.
de Reves: My room at Eton?
Prattle: Yes, you always had papers all over your floor.
de Reves: Oh, yes——
Prattle: And what are these?
de Reves: All these are poems; and this is my altar to Fame.
Prattle: To Fame?
de Reves: The same that Homer knew.
Prattle: Good Lord!
de Reves: Keats never saw her. Shelley died too young. She came late at the best of times, now scarcely ever.
Prattle: But, my dear fellow, you don't mean that you think there really is such a person?
de Reves: I offer all my songs to her.
Prattle: But you don't mean you think you could actuallyseeFame?
de Reves: We poets personify abstract things, and not poets only but sculptors7and painters too. All the great things of the world are those abstract things.
Prattle: But what I mean is, they're not really there, like you or me.
de Reves: To us these things are more real than men, they outlive generations, they watch the passing of kingdoms: we go by them like dust; they are still there, unmoved, unsmiling.
Prattle: But, but, you can't think that you couldseeFame, you don't expect toseeit?
de Reves: Not to me. Never to me. She of the golden trumpet and Greek dress will never appear to me.... We all have our dreams.
Prattle: I say—what have you been doing all day?
de Reves: I? Oh, only writing a sonnet.
Prattle: Is it a long one?
de Reves: Not very.
Prattle: About how long is it?
de Reves: About fourteen lines.
Prattle(impressively): I tell you what it is.
de Reves: Yes?
Prattle: I tell you what. You've been overworking yourself. I once got like that on board the Sandhurst, working for the passing-out exam. I got so bad that I could have seen anything.
de Reves: Seen anything?
Prattle: Lord, yes; horned pigs, snakes with wings; anything; one of your winged horses even. They gave me some stuff called bromide for it. You take a rest.
de Reves: But my dear fellow, you don't understand at all. I merely said that abstract things are to a poet as near and real and visible as one of your bookmakers or barmaids.
Prattle: I know. You take a rest.
de Reves: Well, perhaps I will. I'd come with you to that musical comedy you're going to see, only I'm a bit tired after writing this; it's a tedious job. I'll come another night.
Prattle: How do you know I'm going to see a musical comedy?
de Reves: Well, where would you go?Hamlet's8on at the Lord Chamberlain's. You're not going there.
Prattle: Do I look like it?
de Reves: No.
Prattle: Well, you're quite right. I'm going to see "The Girl from Bedlam." So long. I must push off now. It's getting late. You take a rest. Don't add another line to that sonnet; fourteen's quite enough. You take a rest. Don't have any dinner to-night, just rest. I was like that once myself. So long.
de Reves: So long.
[ExitPrattle.de Revesreturns to his table and sits down.
Good old Dick! He's the same as ever. Lord, how time passes.
He takes his pen and his sonnet and makes a few alterations.
Well, that's finished. I can't do any more to it.
[He rises and goes to the screen; he draws back part of it and goes up to the altar. He is about to place his sonnet reverently at the foot of the altar amongst his other verses.
No, I will not put it there. This one is worthy of the altar.
[He places the sonnet upon the altar itself.
If that sonnet does not give me fame, nothing that I have done before will give it to me, nothing that I ever will do.
[He replaces the screen and returns to his chair at the table. Twilight is coming on. He sits with his elbow on the table, his head on his hand, or however the actor pleases.
Well, well. Fancy seeing Dick again. Well, Dick enjoys his life, so he's no fool. What was that he said? "There's no money in poetry. You'd better chuck it." Ten years' work and what have I to show for it? The admiration of men who care for poetry, and how many ofthemare there? There's a bigger demand for smoked glasses to look at eclipses of the sun. Why should Fame come to me? Haven't I given up my days for her? That is enough to keep her away. I am a poet; that is enough reason for her to slight me. Proud and aloof and cold as marble, what does Fame care for us? Yes, Dick is right. It's a poor game chasing illusions, hunting the intangible, pursuing dreams. Dreams? Why, we are ourselves dreams.
[He leans back in his chair.