Fame and the Poet
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
HARRY DE REVES. — A Poet.
(This name, though of course of French origin, has become anglicized and is pronounced DE REEVS.)
DICK PRATTLE. — A Lieutenant-Major of the Royal Horse Marines. FAME.
SCENE: The Poet’s rooms in London. Windows in back. A high screen in a corner.
TIME:February 30th.
ThePOETis sitting at a table writing. Enter DICK 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 did n’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 there was money 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 would n’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?
Oh, the winged horse of poets.
DE REVES
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, did n’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 REYES
Oh, you would n’t understand.
PRATTLE
Would n’t understand? Why, what have you got?
DE REVES
Oh, one of those things. . . . You would n’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.
My room at Eton?
DE REVES
PRATTLE
Yes, you always had papers all over your floor.
DE REVES
Oh, yes —
And what are these?
PRATTLE
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 abst ract 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 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.
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 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? Have n’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 towards 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 could n’t see a yard.
DE REVES
O Heavens!
FAMEwalks 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.FAMEblows 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 colour?
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
Would n’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 fromTHE 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 fromTHE CROWD,this time only from women’s voices.
DE REVES
Oh, this is terrible. This is terrible. This is terrible.
FAMEgives another peal on her horn.SHEis 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.
MeanwhileFAMEhas been lighting one of his cigarettes.SHEsits in a comfortable chair, leans right back, and puls 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