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 actually
_see_ Fame?
DE REVES. We poets personify abstract things, and not poets only
but sculptors and 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 here, unmoved, unsmiling.
PRATTLE. But, but, you can't think that you could _see_
Fame, you don't expect to _see_ it.
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's_ on at the
Lord Chamberlain's. You're not going there.
PBATTLE. 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.
(_Exit_ PRATTLE. DE REVES _returns 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 of _them_ are 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._)
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
(_He is silent for a while. Suddenly he lifts his head_)
My room at Eton, Dick said. An untidy mess.
(_As he lifts his head and says these words, twilight gives place
to broad daylight, merely as a hint that the author of the play
may have been mistaken, and the whole thing may have been no more
than a poet's dream._)
So it was, and it's an untidy mess there (_looking at screen_) too.
Dick's right. I'll tidy it up. I'll burn the whole damned heap.
(_He advances impetuously toward the screen_) Every damned poem
that I was ever fool enough to waste my time on.
(_He pushes back the screen._ FAME _in a Greek dress with a long
golden trumpet in her hand is seen standing motionless on the
altar like a marble goddess._)
So ... you have come!
(_For a while he stands thunderstruck. Then he approaches the
altar._)
Divine fair lady, you have come.
(_He holds up his hands to her and leads her down from the altar
and into the centre of the stage. At whatever moment the actor
finds it most convenient, he repossesses himself of the sonnet
that he had placed on the altar. He now offers it to_ FAME.)
This is my sonnet. Is it well done?
(FAME _takes it, reads it in silence, while the_ POET _watches her
rapturously._)
FAME. You're a bit of all right.
DE REVES. What?
FAME. Some poet.
DE REVES. I--I--scarcely ... understand.
FAME. You're IT.
DE REVES. But ... it is not possible ... are you she that knew Homer?
FAME. Homer? Lord, yes. Blind old bat, 'e couldn't see a yard.
DE REVES. O Heavens!
(FAME _walks beautifully to the window. She opens it and puts her
head out._)
FAME (_in a voice with which a woman in an upper story would cry
for help if the house was well alight_). Hi! Hi! Boys! Hi! Say,
folks! Hi!
(_The murmur of a gathering crowd is heard._ FAME _blows her
trumpet._)
FAME. Hi, he's a poet. (_Quickly, over her shoulder._) What's your
name?
DE REVES. De Reves.
FAME. His name's de Reves.
DE REVES. Harry de Reves.
FAME. His pals call him Harry.
THE CROWD. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!
FAME. Say, what's your favourite color?
DE REVES. I ... I ... I don't quite understand.
FAME. Well, which do you like best, green or blue?
DE REVES. Oh--er--blue. (_She blows her trumpet out of the
window._) No--er--I think green.
FAME. Green is his favourite colour.
THE CROWD. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!
FAME. 'Ere, tell us something. They want to know all about yer.
DE REVES; Wouldn't you perhaps ... would they care to hear my
sonnet, if you would--er....
FAME (_picking up quill_). Here, what's this?
DE REVES. Oh, that's my pen.
FAME (_after another blast on her trumpet_). He writes with a
quill. (_Cheers from_ THE CROWD.)
FAME (_going to a cupboard_). Here, what have you got in here?
DE REVES. Oh ... er ... those are my breakfast things.
FAME (_finding a dirty plate_). What have yer had on this one?
DE REVES (_mournfully_). Oh, eggs and bacon.
FAME (_at the window_). He has eggs and bacon for breakfast.
THE CROWD. Hip hip hip _hooray!_ Hip hip hip _hooray!_
Hip hip hip _hooray!_
FAME. Hi, and what's this?
DE REVES (_miserably_). Oh, a golf stick.
FAME. He's a man's man! He's a virile man! He's a manly man!
(_Wild cheers from_ THE CROWD, _this time only from women's voices._)
DE REVES. Oh, this is terrible. This is terrible. This is
terrible.
(FAME _gives another peal on her horn. She is about to speak._)
DE REVES (_solemnly and mournfully_). One moment, one moment....
FAME. Well, out with it.
DE REVES. For ten years, divine lady, I have worshipped you,
offering all my songs ... I find ... I find I am not worthy....
FAME. Oh, you're all right.
DE REVES. No, no, I am not worthy. It cannot be. It cannot
possibly be. Others deserve you more. I must say it! _I cannot
possibly love you._ Others are worthy. You will find others.
But I, no, no, no. It cannot be. It cannot be. Oh, pardon me, but
it _must_ not.
(_Meanwhile_ FAME _has been lighting one of his cigarettes. She sits
in a comfortable chair, leans right back, and puts her feet right
up on the table amongst the poet's papers._)
Oh, I fear I offend you. But--it cannot be.
FAME. Oh, that's all right, old bird; no offence. I ain't going
to leave you.
DE REVES. But--but--but--I do not understand.
FAME. I've come to stay, I have.
(_She blows a puff of smoke through her trumpet._)
[CURTAIN]