Chapter III: Part 3

GREGORIUS PEDRO: No, no indeed. I never thought to see such a thing on earth; and now, now ... you say it is certain?

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: Certain.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: Ah, well. It seemed like it, it seemed like it for some days. At first I thought I had looked too long through our eastern window, I thought it was the sun that had dazzled my eyes; and then, then it was clearly something else.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: It is certain now.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: Ah, well.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS (_sitting beside him, sighs_): I grudge him nothing.

GREGORIUS PEDRO (_a little heavily_): No, nor I.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: You are sad, brother.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: No, not sad.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: Ah, but I see it.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: Ah, well.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: What grieves you, brother?

GREGORIUS PEDRO: (_Sighs_) We shall water the roses no more, he and I. We shall roll the lawns no more. We shall tend the young tulips together never again.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: Oh, why not? Why not? There is not all that difference.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: There is.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: It is our cross, brother. We must bear it.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: Ah, yes. Yes, yes.

[_A bell rings noisily._

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: The gate bell, brother! Be of good cheer, it is the gate bell ringing!

GREGORIUS PEDRO: Why should I be of good cheer because the gate bell rings?

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: Why, brother, the world is at the gate. We shall see someone. It is an event. Someone will come and speak of the great world. Oh, be of good cheer, be of good cheer, brother.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: I think that I am heavy at heart to-day.

[_Enter_ JOHN SMOGGS.

SMOGGS: Ullo, Governor. Is either o' yer the chief monk?

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: The Reverend Abbot is not here.

SMOGGS: 'Ain't, ain't 'e?

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: But what do you seek, friend?

SMOGGS: Want to know what you blokes are getting up to.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: We do not understand your angry zeal.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: Tell us, friend.

SMOGGS: One o' yer is playing games no end, and we won't 'ave it.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: Games?

SMOGGS: Well, miracles if you like it better, and we won't 'ave it, nor any of your 'igh church games nor devices.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: What does he say, brother?

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: Friend, you perplex us. We hoped you would speak to us of the great world, its gauds, its wickedness, its----

SMOGGS: We won't 'ave it. We won't 'ave none of it, that's all.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: Tell us, friend, tell us what you mean. Then we will do whatever you ask. And then you shall speak to us of the world.

SMOGGS: There 'e is, there 'e is, the blighter. There 'e is. 'E's coming. O Lord...!

[_He turns and runs. Exit._

GREGORIUS PEDRO: It's Antoninus!

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: Why, yes; yes, of course!

GREGORIUS PEDRO: He must have seen him over the garden wall.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: We must hush it up.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: Hush it up?

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: There must be no scandal in the monastery.

[_Enter_ BROTHER ANTONINUS _wearing a halo. He walks across and exits._

[GREGORIUS _is gazing with wide eyes._

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: There must be no scandal in the monastery.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: It has grown indeed!

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: Yes, it has grown since yesterday.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: I noticed it dimly just three days ago. I noticed it dimly. But I did not---- I could not guess ... I never dreamed that it would come to this.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: Yes, it has grown for three days.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: It was just a dim light over his head, but now...!

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: It flamed up last night.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: There is no mistaking it now.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: There must be _no scandal_.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: No scandal, brother?

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: Look how unusual it is. People will talk. You heard what that man said. They will all talk.

GREGORIUS PEDRO (_sadly_): Ah, well.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: How could we face it.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: It is, yes, yes,--it is unusual.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: Nothing like it has happened for many centuries.

GREGORIUS PEDRO (_sadly_): No, no. I suppose not. Poor Antoninus.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: Why could he not have waited?

GREGORIUS PEDRO: Waited? What? Three--three hundred years?

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: Or even five or ten. He is long past sixty.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: Yes, yes, it would have been better.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: You saw how ashamed he was.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: Poor Antoninus. Yes, yes. Brother, I think if we had not been here he would have come and sat on this bench.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: I think he would. But he was ashamed to come, looking, looking like that.

GREGORIUS PEDRO: Brother, let us go. It is the hour at which he loves to come and sit here, and read in the Little Book of Lesser Devices. Let us go so that he may come here and be alone.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS: As you will, brother; we must help him when we can.

[_They rise and go._

GREGORIUS PEDRO: Poor Antoninus.

LUCULLUS SEVERUS (_glancing_): I think he will come back now.

[_Exeunt. The bare, sandaled foot of_ ANTONINUS _appears as the last heel lifts in the other doorway._

[_Enter_ ANTONINUS _rather timidly. He goes to bench and sits. He sighs. He shakes his head to loosen the halo, but in vain. He sighs. Then he opens his book and reads in silence. Silence gives way to mumbles, mumbles to words._[4]

ANTONINUS: ... and finally beat down Satan under our feet.

[_Enter_ SATAN. _He has the horns and long hair and beard of a he-goat. His face and voice are such as could have been once in heaven._

ANTONINUS (_standing, lifting arm_): In the name of ...

SATAN: Banish me not.

ANTONINUS: In the name ...

SATAN: Say nothing you may regret, until I have spoken.

ANTONINUS: In the ...

SATAN: Hear me.

ANTONINUS: Well?

SATAN: There fell with me from heaven a rare, rare spirit, the light of whose limbs far outshone dawn and evening.

ANTONINUS: Well?

SATAN: We dwell in darkness.

ANTONINUS: What is that to me?

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.

[ANTONINUS _draws 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. (ANTONINUS _grips his scourge._) Her arms are full of may.

ANTONINUS: Speak not of such things. Speak not, I say.

[SATAN _is 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.

[ANTONINUS _raises 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.

[SATAN _sighs. The girls laugh from the hill._ ANTONINUS _hears 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_, SATAN _smiles, the girls sing on._ ANTONINUS _tip-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 and_ ANTONINUS _sits listening._

ANTONINUS (_hand to forehead_): My head aches. I think it is that song.... Perhaps, perhaps it is the halo. Too heavy, too heavy for _us_.

[SATAN _walks gently up and removes it and walks away with the gold disc._ ANTONINUS _sits silent._

SATAN: When the moon is waning.

[_Exit. More petals fall past the window. The song rings on._ ANTONINUS _sits quite still, on his face a new ecstacy._

CURTAIN.

IF SHAKESPEARE LIVED TO-DAY

_DRAMATIS PERSONAE_

SIR WEBLEY WOOTHERY-JURNIP} _Members of the_ MR. NEEKS } _Olympus_.

JERGINS, _an old waiter_.

MR. TRUNDLEBEN, _Secretary of the Club_.

MR. GLEEK, _Editor of the "Banner and Evening Gazette" and member of the Olympus_.

SCENE

_A room in the Olympus Club._

_Time: After luncheon._

SIR WEBLEY WOOTHERY-JURNIP _and_ MR. NEEKS _sit by a small table. Further away sits_ MR. GLEEK, _the Editor of the "Banner and Evening Gazette."_ SIR WEBLEY JURNIP _rises 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? Do _you_ know 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.

[_Enter_ JERGINS.

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.

[JERGINS _retires._

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, and _he_ said 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 a _ghost_ in 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!

[NEEKS[5] _with 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 WEBLEY _and_ NEEKS[6] _laugh 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?

[TRUNDLEBEN _holds out his list again._

TRUNDLEBEN: "The Tragedy of--of King Richard the--the Second."

SIR WEBLEY: But _was_ his life a tragedy? _Was_ it 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--perhaps _rather_ tragic, 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 WEBLEY and NEEKS: H'm.

TRUNDLEBEN: Left out altogether. And then there are "Sonnets," and--and "Venus and Adonis," and--and "The Phoenix and the Turtle."

SIR WEBLEY: The Phoenix 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. _Just_ the 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: The _Banner and Evening Gazette_ would 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.

[_Exit_ TRUNDLEBEN, _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, when_ JERGINS _comes between him and_ MR. 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 ...

[NEEKS _rises and goes some of the way towards_ GLEEK'S _chair._

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._

CURTAIN.

FAME AND THE POET

_DRAMATIS PERSONAE_

HARRY DE REVES, _a Poet_.

(_This name, though of course of French origin, has become anglicised 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._

_The_ POET _is 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 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 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 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 the_ POET _in 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.

[_The_ POET _walks towards_ PRATTLE _and the screen. He protests no further._ PRATTLE _looks 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 actually _see_ Fame?

DE REVES: We poets personify abstract things, and not poets only but sculptors[7] 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 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[8] 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.

[_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 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 hand 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 and 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 storey 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 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: Wouldn't[9] 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.

[Transcriber's Note: Footnotes indicate where typographical errors in the original edition have been corrected.]

[Footnote 1: Corrected from "eaxct"]

[Footnote 2: Corrected from "wouln't"]

[Footnote 3: Corrected from "MRS. SPLURGE"]

[Footnote 4: An unmatched parenthesis has been deleted]

[Footnote 5: Corrected from "Neek"]

[Footnote 6: Corrected from "Neek"]

[Footnote 7: Corrected from "scuptors"]

[Footnote 8: Corrected from "_Hamlet's_"]

[Footnote 9: Corrected from "Wouln't"]