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"]